You call this networks? Marketing yourself can be difficult

networks. No matter how you tweet, tweet, link, face, or space, you have to these days if you want to avoid career suicide. However, with all this online socializing, your ability to meet strangers one-on-one (probably the best networking tool of all) rusts and takes a backseat to your abilities. There is no such thing as accidental networking. Networking is a mission. When you head to a function to meet and greet people who can further your career, you have a strong sense of purpose. Even a chance meeting can provide a networking opportunity.

Once you find out that new acquaintances have professional power, you instantly decide to make the meeting count. There is no real secret to it. Most people, myself included, hate to admit to networking because we later reveal that we’re actually using the world’s greatest career trick. We might think it smacks of cheating. You know you do; I know you do; others know you do it; and you read that you’re supposed to, but you somehow deny that you’re doing it. I mean, only the ones with etiquette issues would introduce themselves saying, “Hi, I’m Jane. I’m here to network.” Oh!

Now, I’m basically shy. Oh, I know I give a lot of seminars and speak in front of hundreds of people, but those one-on-ones are killers. Chatting with strangers makes me nervous. I never quite know what to say. I solve the problem by avoiding it as much as I can. But following this recipe can lead to a very lonely life, not to mention a dearth of contacts. So when I was invited to a book signing party at a very exclusive old-money private club (which costs your entire savings account to join, requires a secret selection committee vote, and a Daughters of the American Revolution Club) . background), I didn’t know if I should go. I tried to rationalize. I am the CEO of a continuing education company and editor-in-chief of three magazines. The members of this select club could become important clients. And obviously someone thought I was worthy enough to grace the hallowed halls of haughtiness. The low? I didn’t know anyone there, so I had no one to hide behind.

So there was another possible problem. For the last 50 years or so, the club was rumored to be anti-Semitic (not to mention what their attitude was towards other non-majority types). My grandmother would roll over in her grave if she thought I was considering putting a little finger in this establishment. And now she wanted to go in hopes of furthering my career? He was mad? When I discussed this with my colleagues, they made fun of me. “That ‘problem’ no longer exists. We are in the 21st century,” they said.

Yes, but in my mind, how long was a long time ago? And did any of the people who had that ‘problem’ long ago belong to the club today? But the critical need to network and the thought of spending one more night just watching “Law & Order” reruns overrode my sensibilities. I made up my mind, settled into my small talk, and headed for the chi-chi club with iron barriers to enter.

I dress in my smart-casual business suit, taking care to make it black so people don’t notice the slight weight issue. (Okay, okay, a little more than mild.) I’m moving down the road practicing my elevator pitch: “I provide education and timely communications for the legal field.” “Oh, I see, a lawyer. How interesting!”

And then one of those uncontrollable things happens that happens at precisely the wrong time. I start to breathe. I can’t stop. Either I’m very nervous or this is the longest hot flash in history. Maybe my grandmother has found out what I’m doing. “Oh, God,” I pleaded. “Not now.” I turn on the air conditioning. I have one hand on the wheel as I blow waves of cold air onto my face, which is currently dripping with makeup and forming little brown dots on my clean white neck. I’m panicking, but I’m determined to do this. I arrive at the club, take a deep breath, put a smile on my face, nod to the doorman, and walk straight through the mahogany double doors, onto the marble inlaid floors, past the authentic Biedermeyer furniture. I’m on a mission.

Despite the confidence, the first few minutes after making your entrance can be disconcerting. Shall I go to the bar? I find the hostess with more than I have never met? Do I approach a group that is obviously engaged in proper chatter and chatter? A waiter with a fancy silver tray doesn’t even ask, just hands me a glass of wine. Good. Now I look at the part. As I look around, I realize that the room is full of potential clients, but even my quick read on “How to Work in a Room” hadn’t prepared me for this crowd. The room is filled with Armani and Versace. Poor Ana Klein. It’s the nineties. Her pantsuit seems out of place and I happen to be wearing it. Not brave enough to go say hi, I walk over to the table stacked with the author’s new books. I tell myself that I am making the first right move. After all, this is a book signing party.

Seeing a gentleman sitting behind the table, I assume he is the author eagerly waiting to buy autographs. I decide to help him. “Michael,” I say confidently, “who was your favorite character?” The woman next to me huffs and sighs. “This is Andre, dear, the cashier. The author is there with the hostess.” (That’s how she talked, actually.) Oh. Well, one misstep isn’t going to kill me. I walk up to the hostess and introduce myself. “Oh yes,” she says gracefully and turns to the group. “With the NBA playoffs tonight, I really had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get people to come.” The group laughs. I’m standing there with my frozen glass of merlot in hand. I decide the comment wasn’t directed at me and she’s probably just as nervous as I am. I ignore him and prepare to chat.

The conversation turned to Mr. Harriweather’s trip to Tuscany. I am comfortable now. I have been to Europe. The conversation turns to Paris. We’re home now, honey! This I know. I decide to intervene, “Paris”, I sigh and sip my wine slowly. (He had learned three things in the 5 minutes he had been there: sniffing, sighing, and slow drinking seemed to be important.) “When I did this American Express tour a few years ago…what was that? tsk tsk to my right. The tinted blonde with recent Botox injections and faux pearl earrings is rolling her newly reconstructed eyes and shaking head. Oh, oh. Obviously, no American Express trips here.

I quickly change direction. “Oh, I agree,” I say. “The best part of all that mess was arriving in Paris at nightfall and seeing the beautiful lights on the Eiffel Tower.” Phew. That should score some points. But the group looks at me weird. I realize that I had started sweating again and now my mascara is slipping off my lashes and settling in dark circles under my eyes. A couple of people actually take a step back. I really want to go. But my guaranteed-fit girdle panty makes you look ten pounds thinner was slowly rolling down my stomach. Obviously, a quick getaway was not going to happen.

The hostess with less than the maximum intervenes. “You know, a nice Jewish girl like me has to be very careful when I travel to Europe,” she trails off. I wonder what it’s all about. Why would she even mention that she is Jewish? What point was she trying to make herself? Did she feel uncomfortable herself being here? “Oh, speaking of which,” says the ever-enthusiastic Mr. Harriweather in the affected English accent, “whenever I travel in Europe, I always claim that I’m Canadian instead of American. You know, they don’t hate Canadians there.” .” Well, that’s true. There aren’t enough of them. This was one of those situations where they built an entire country and no one came. But I keep quiet and sip my wine (slowly).

But Mr. Harriweather isn’t done. I wonder if he knows that tweed jackets with leather elbow patches aren’t exactly GQ anymore. “And my friend who’s traveling with me says he’s Canadian too. And guess what? Everyone buys it and he’s Jewish!” I spit my wine over what’s left of the white of my blouse. He thinks his story is very funny. Now, for starters, I’m already having trouble reconciling the fact that I’m in this silly club, plus the fact that I’m worried about how to shrink from the crowd because I can’t seem to control this perspiration, coupled with the fact that the makeup that is supposed to be on my eyes is now running from ear to ear. I can’t control my reaction. “That?” I spit. “Do you really think that no one is Jewish in Canada?” The room goes silent. I have the distinct feeling that I’ve just strayed out of the manual’s guidelines for tasteful networking. In any case, no matter what my personal feelings are, I have definitely gone beyond a misstep.

At that moment, a bell rings. “Ah,” the hostess says with more, “it’s time for our author to start her talk.” Saved I guess. Feel. I notice that no one sits next to me. In fact, I’m the only one in the whole line. Well, I tell myself, maybe I’m getting a little raunchy with all this sweat. I am terribly self-conscious. The author speaks. Heard. As the author concludes, the hostess announces that it is time for dinner. I get up. I do the only thing available to me. I pretend to go briefly to the bathroom and, without even thinking, walk past the authentic Bidermeyer furniture, onto the inlaid marble floors, and out the mahogany double doors. I realize there may be some future explaining to do. But I am sure of one thing: at no time will I ever again compromise my value system to advance my career.

Hopefully no one has noticed that I’m gone much sooner than I was supposed to. On the other hand, they’re probably relieved after what happened and all. Unfortunately, the valet has lost my car. I wait for what seems like forever. Eventually, he locates it and brings it up. As I’m about to make my escape, I hear “Yooo-hooo!…Oh, Mrs. Esssss-trin!” rats she caught. It’s Mrs. Macintosh, the head of the library committee, coming at me waving one of those damn books. “You’re not leaving, are you, dear?” Oh, God, girl, control yourself. Of course, it’s me. “Why not,” I say. “I’m just looking for something.” Yes. My front door. “Well, you’ve left your autographed copy of your book,” she says in her singsong voice. Excellent. A memory of the afternoon.

As I drive home, I realize that I made the right decision in choosing to leave. As much as I wanted to meet new people and get on the networking circuit, this particular scene was not for me. I found myself desperately trying not to be who I really was so I could fit in. What was I thinking? I didn’t need to do that. Would you try networking again? Sure, but by now, I knew that networking doesn’t work unless you’re comfortable, confident, and choose your scenarios wisely. On that, he needed a bit of work. I decide that next time I’ll feel more confident and know what I’m getting myself into. As I drive up to my front door, I start to feel safe again. I wash off my wine and stained Cover Girl suit, wash off what’s left of my makeup, and plop into my comfy Lazy Boy. I count my blessings as I turn on the television. Wouldn’t you know? I’m just in time for another rerun of “Law & Order.”