Intermission #3 (13/30)

Thirty essays in thirty days, number thirteen

I noticed something interesting while selling software. Whenever I would bring something personal into the small talk at the beginning of each call—that I had just gotten done with a workout, or that my dog had surgery, or that I had a messy houseguest that week—I was able to build rapport much more quickly than when that small talk centered on, say, the weather. The conversations became more human, more real. Weird, huh?

This is what people originally meant by bringing your ‘whole self’ to work. You know, before that got bastardized into a weird identity thing. It meant that instead of constructing a sterile work persona that does nothing but circle back and touch base, it might be nice to acknowledge the fact that the back-circlers and base-touchers are also human beings who pee and have feelings and stuff. For me this whole self thing brought two benefits: it made me more successful, and it made work less tiring. 

I now enjoy making fun of people who suppress parts of themselves at work. The jargon and forced smiles make for easy targets. But I recently realized something inconvenient: I still do the same thing. The window dressing is just different.

People have asked me why I rarely write about business or other prominent parts of my life. My stock answer is that it would be boring, that there’s no good meat on those bones. But I’m starting to think it’s something else. I think I’m subconsciously crafting a writer persona, one that does nothing but explore the philosophical and introspective and significant, living in a world high above the mundanity of business and sports. I’m suppressing parts of myself, just like the jargon-speakers.

This is part of why it’s been so liberating to write about lacrosse. I’ve watched seven lacrosse games this week. Seven! And I’ve been watching somewhere around seven lacrosse games per week every season since I was sixteen. But until now I hadn’t written a single thing about it. The writer persona believed itself to be above writing about sports. Breaking that barrier has been akin to telling software prospects about my dog’s knee surgery. I’m bringing all of myself to my work, regardless of how well I think it will fit. It feels good. It’s been successful, and less tiring.

Stay tuned for Part 4 of Lacrosse: A Love Story, the culmination of this whole shebang.