There is something about a room full of lawyers that makes me prone to bouts of narcolepsy. Lawyers can be a dour bunch, wearing variations of the same dark suit and weary smiles that show they must return to the office after drinks to review that contract. A barrister who can reduce a witness to a weeping, remorseful puddle in court may similarly have a person shedding tears of boredom at a cocktail party that same night.
Clearly, it is unfair to generalise about an entire profession. I know many exceptionally charismatic, fascinating and passionate legal practitioners. Unfortunately, these captivating creatures are often absent from the networking functions that I so dread. And so, my experience of “networking” with other lawyers has fallen into a predictable pattern.
Firstly, after a period of skulking in a corner, I’m usually sufficiently bored with the company of the Thai prawn rissoles to approach a group and introduce myself. This involves hovering at the edge of the circle, hoping that someone will make space for me and graciously incorporate me into the conversation. My contribution is usually limited to nods at appropriate intervals because I’ve not much to say on whether private equity companies should treat profits on asset sales as taxable revenue. When I feel myself losing my battle to suppress my yawns, I search for an exit strategy. Ideally, I’d like to cause a spark of recognition from someone across the room, who approaches me and exclaims, “Oh I was hoping you’d be here!” In reality, my eyes dart around desperately until I sigh and mumble, “Excuse me, I’m going to get another drink”. The group often looks surprised as they have since forgotten that I was there and collectively drop their eyes to my name tag to jog their memories. Baffled as to how to pronounce a name with a “t” and an “s” in such close proximity, they all smile thinly and return to their discussion.
Recently, I felt that I had perhaps improved in my ability to navigate arid social wastelands when I attended a dinner party comprised of a group of intelligent, articulate and opinionated strangers. We had debated foreign policy, literature and other appropriately bourgeois topics while we perched on Chesterfield lounges and sipped 2006 Pommard Les Vignots from crystal glasses. Relieved to have not spilled anything on the antique Afghan carpets, I went to say goodbye to the nearest guest, who happened to be a ridiculously good-looking property developer and amateur pilot. I stuck my hand out to shake his as he simultaneously reached over to embrace me. Alarmed, he withdrew his arms and went to grip me in a handshake, while I had since retracted my hand and gone in for the hug. Panicking, and desperate to end the torture, I lunged at him in a violent embrace and kissed his cheek while emitting a nervous giggle so close to his ear that I could almost hear his tympanic membrane vibrating. I thought the embarrassment of the ‘its-a-handshake-no-oops-its-a-hug’ debacle had finally ended, only to realise that we had parked our cars next to each other and had to walk the length of winding driveway together.
1 comment:
Hahaha! Sometimes Awkward City feels like my third home.
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