Here’s a shocking tidbit: I’m resistant to motivational speakers.
My bosses, unfortunately, don’t share that aversion, so once or twice a year, we’re all herded into a room and forced to negotiate foreign objects like creativity-inspiring toys, giant sticky-pads, and oversized fluorescent markers. It’s like kindergarten without naptime.
These presenations are invariably unpleasant. On the one hand, I have to endure poorly coiffed, badly dressed, over-caffienated windbags who are generally more interested in hearing themselves talk than conveying useful information. And on the other, I have to endure some painful self-examination: What sort of hangups prevent me from listening with an open mind to this reasonably well-educated guy? How is this experience any different from that of attending a lecture back in college? Why am I reduced to making juvenile comments about his wearing of both pleated Dockers and jogging shoes instead of gleaning something useful from the discussion? What sort of insecurities does that expose? Can anyone see them besides me? Can he?
Ultimately, Leo that I am, I spend more time selfishly pondering my own reaction to the situation instead of listening to the schmuck at the whiteboard. Does it always have to come down to that old cliche that the people we most abhor are the ones most like us?
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