As I stumbled out of the cab in front of our hotel on the highest point of Bermuda, gasping for fresh air and trying (unsuccessfully) to ignore the queasiness in my stomach from the 25 minute taxi ride along the island’s serpentine road, I was met by what appeared to be a seven foot giant* wearing a suit coat, tie and Bermuda shorts (some sort of island mirage?) and offering me Bermuda’s national cocktail...oh, that dangerously smooth and delicious Dark & Stormy. My single-minded response? "Please, PLEASE, where is the ladies' room?" Clearly, my first hour in Bermuda was anything but indicative of what turned out to be a red-letter two weeks and perhaps, one answer to my previously blogged New Year’s Plea.
How does two weeks of working my arse off to help coordinate a sales training event, where 14 hour days are still too short to finish our work, manage to unravel 10 months worth of the stress-induced tightly wound knots I'd tied myself into? By providing that first illuminating moment we all wait for after a drastic career change: the moment when something clicks and all the pieces (the cryptic jargon, mysterious tasks and puzzling co-worker comments) start to fall into place and the big picture finally starts to make sense. The fact that it happened on the most alluringly beautiful island in the world just makes it sweeter. And the indulgently, fluffy frosting on the cupcake? Our client was a well-known, MALE-DOMINATED software company, famous for their fun-loving sales force. Being showered with attention from a lot of men at the same time who are not only fun, but also smart and interesting to talk to was like I said, the indulgently fluffy frosting... (enough for an entire blog post--see post below entitled "Candy for My Feminine Senses")
More highlights from the event :
•Going to the local market with my co-worker to buy client gifts and filling our cart with 20+ bottles of Gosling’s Black Rum, eliciting more than a few incredulous stares from local residents
•The flavors of Bermuda: fish chowder, fresh rock fish, violet candy, Bermuda rum cake, Dark and Stormies** and Rum Swizzles
•Spending more time ironing (thank you logo table cloths and event shirts) than I’ve spent ironing everything else combined in my entire life while warding off the obvious, not-so-funny Stepford Wife jokes
•Feeling like kids on Christmas morning when our missing Fed-ex box from Dallas finally arrived 4 days late (complete with screaming, jumping up and down and tearing open the box)
•The delicious, full chocolate, avant-garde chocolate sculpture (gift from the hotel pastry chef)
•Turquoise (count the gradations) water, white/coral sand, tourists on scooters, pastel colored houses behind moon gates (see photo below), and the truly genuine nature of Bermudian natives and residents
So on that last morning, as we pulled out of the hotel drive in the taxi to the airport, my stomach felt fine but my heart was aching. I already missed the island, permanently etched in my memory as the place I was when what should have been soul-sucking labor, instead turned out to be the invigorating gust of epiphany and motivation that I needed to just let go. The Magic of Paradise? I believe!
*The seven foot giant turned out to be our one and only Director of Conference Services, the gallant leader of our hotel staff, all of whom sport suit jackets, dress shirts and ties with Bermuda shorts, which is indeed a Bermudian custom and looks perfectly normal by the time you leave the island.
**Barrit's Ginger Beer and Gosling's Black Rum
2/19/2007
Candy for My Feminine Senses
I’m not going to lie. One of the highlights of the Bermuda event was that I was a female Event Coordinator after 2 months of long hours in a female-dominated industry, amidst hundreds of male software sales reps from a male-dominated industry who spent 10 days of intense training with each other.
Throw in a secluded tropical island, Gosling’s black rum, a nearby dance club that plays Shakira and Sean Paul, and what did this lucky girl get?
•Guaranteed friends and attention from men at every function and during every break
•Free drinks and invitations to socialize every night
•Lots of dance partners
•Someone telling me that I look like Fergie (YES, the singer, not the actual British royalty)
•The guy I’d been secretly crushing on all week looking into my eyes on the dance floor, grabbing my waist and singing along with the lyrics, “Who knew that she could dance like that? She makes a man want to speak Spanish…” (the fact that I don’t actually speak Spanish aside, why is that so endearing when you actually have a crush on someone, but so cheesy when you don’t?)
•If I simply mentioned something I might need, there it was. (a sofa on which to lay down and rest my feet, a jacket to keep me warm, a refreshing drink, etc.)
And the sweet red cherry on top?
A foot massage by not one, but TWO doting men (and not just any two men, but my two absolutely favorite men) at the same time, one on each side. Oh, but it gets better. It eventually turned into a foot, calf AND hand massage. And as I settled back into a relaxing state of nirvana, I had but a single thought:
“I LOVE (Male Dominated Software Company.**)”
Any girl who doesn’t take advantage of THAT, is either lying or crazy.
** Clearly, not the actual name of the company. This is still an anonymous blog, after all, and for the protection of all parties involved, I must add that the drinks and dancing happened only after the event when it was professionally kosher. In addition, despite the drinks and dancing, all participants maintained the professional behavior expected and no inappropriate lines were crossed.
Throw in a secluded tropical island, Gosling’s black rum, a nearby dance club that plays Shakira and Sean Paul, and what did this lucky girl get?
•Guaranteed friends and attention from men at every function and during every break
•Free drinks and invitations to socialize every night
•Lots of dance partners
•Someone telling me that I look like Fergie (YES, the singer, not the actual British royalty)
•The guy I’d been secretly crushing on all week looking into my eyes on the dance floor, grabbing my waist and singing along with the lyrics, “Who knew that she could dance like that? She makes a man want to speak Spanish…” (the fact that I don’t actually speak Spanish aside, why is that so endearing when you actually have a crush on someone, but so cheesy when you don’t?)
•If I simply mentioned something I might need, there it was. (a sofa on which to lay down and rest my feet, a jacket to keep me warm, a refreshing drink, etc.)
And the sweet red cherry on top?
A foot massage by not one, but TWO doting men (and not just any two men, but my two absolutely favorite men) at the same time, one on each side. Oh, but it gets better. It eventually turned into a foot, calf AND hand massage. And as I settled back into a relaxing state of nirvana, I had but a single thought:
“I LOVE (Male Dominated Software Company.**)”
Any girl who doesn’t take advantage of THAT, is either lying or crazy.
** Clearly, not the actual name of the company. This is still an anonymous blog, after all, and for the protection of all parties involved, I must add that the drinks and dancing happened only after the event when it was professionally kosher. In addition, despite the drinks and dancing, all participants maintained the professional behavior expected and no inappropriate lines were crossed.
2/11/2007
1/12/2007
What's my Bermuda pressure, please?
Just one week ago, I sat in the office in Dallas, blood pressure rising and buried in pre-event stress, wondering what was wrong with me: I was about to spend 2 weeks in Bermuda, but not only was I feeling dread, but I found myself actually looking forward to the LAST day of the trip (read: last day of what my sources say is a most exraordinarily logistically complicated event). But somehow, sitting at a temporary desk, doing the EXACT same work, but being able to turn my head and see palm trees and the ocean seems to have lowered my blood pressure. I don't know if it really did, but I DO know that last day is coming up entirely too soon! More posts to follow...
1/08/2007
New Year's Plea
How the hell did I survive 2006? A dramatic question, I know. And certainly, in my case, a question fraught with upper middle -class angst. But it feels like any old angst to me. Last year started so auspiciously for me as I charged forward into all kinds of uncharted territory. But at the first taste of the heady exhilaration that only risk-taking brings, God looked down at my insufferably optimistc ways and thought, "Let's stir it up a little and see what she's REALLY made of." A little hope here, a little disillusionment there, toss in some happiness, uncertainty, heartache and opportunity for courage - whatever it takes for a complete and categorically gut-wrenching self-evaluation.
Did it work? Well, 2 weeks before the end of 2006, I found myself, the girl who swore off academia for good on the day she graduated with her first degree, having broken into a new industry (a feat which I'd begun to believe was impossible) standing in line at the post office and holding... (gasp!) an actual graduate school application. MY graduate school application. And I was actually not close to tears. There may even have been some smiling.
Ok, so I've discovered a little more about myself. Please give me a less emotionally tumultuous 2007. Please, please, please.
Did it work? Well, 2 weeks before the end of 2006, I found myself, the girl who swore off academia for good on the day she graduated with her first degree, having broken into a new industry (a feat which I'd begun to believe was impossible) standing in line at the post office and holding... (gasp!) an actual graduate school application. MY graduate school application. And I was actually not close to tears. There may even have been some smiling.
Ok, so I've discovered a little more about myself. Please give me a less emotionally tumultuous 2007. Please, please, please.
12/18/2006
Gym Enigmas
The biggest mystery at the gym to me is, suprisingly, none of the following:
- The officious trainer ( If I want an appointment, I will make one with my own trainer who, clearly, is not you. Furthermore, I do not think that you are God's Gift to Women merely because you are a personal trainer)
- The Grunter/Groaner/Weight Slammer (Need I say more?)
- The blithely naked women in the locker room, sitting on the benches and bending over when you least expect it
- Inconsiderate weight lifters who leave 300 lbs worth of free weights on the machine and walk away after their sets, leaving me to choose between attempting to take the weights off myself (ha ha) or asking the officious trainer for help
While I may spend the rest of my life struggling to understand the reasoning behind such behavior, the most inexplicable mystery of all and one that I've only encountered at my new gym is:
The weigh scale in the middle of the gym floor. What's the big deal, you ask? For one thing, it's not in a discreet spot near the trainers' desks for use in fitness tests as you would expect. It is truly at the center, in full view of anyone on their way to the weights, the stairs up to the cardio machines, the courts or the locker rooms. But even more noteworthy is the absence of a scale in the ladies' locker room. I mean, really? Weigh myself in front of the entire membership of the gym? I'd rather be pestered by 100 trainers at once while trying to lift a couple of 150 lb. free weights that the 2 Grunter/Groaner/Weight Slammers left on the Smith machine, during which the fire alarm goes off and all the naked people are forced to run out, sans towels.
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