For as much as I enjoy reading Urban Dictionary and marveling over the latest creations of the English language, there are some words I fervently wish would disappear. Obviously the only vocabulary I can control is my own, and accordingly I’ll perform a verbal audit from time to time. “Audit” may be a little too strong, so let us define it as a heightened awareness of what is said.
The goal of these audits? The ability to speak plainly, yet persuasively. I’ve been paying close attention to good talkers recently: in person, on televised interviews, podcasts, really wherever the opportunity presents itself. I can’t say precisely what goes into the secret sauce. All I know is it’s pleasing to the ear. It’s compelling to listen. It inspires, honestly.
I heard “synergies” used earnestly in a meeting today, and I’m fairly certain the only synergization that occurred right then was between bile and breakfast in, like, my mouth. Vomit, in other words. Perhaps it’s because today is Earth Day, but “synergy” evokes images of an alternative energy source, specifically a kind of dark matter someone like Lex Luthor would harness to melt alternative energy advocates.
That’s why the first sweep of my verbal audit always targets corporate jargon. I spend most of my time in an office environment, after all, and this is where I’m most likely to pick up unnecessary lingo. “Ideate” is my current pet peeve. I will never utter this verb. There’s got to be a leaner way to express this, you know? What’s wrong with “think,” “discuss,” or even “deliberate”? I still despise the word “learnings,” too, as does my word processor, judging by the squiggly red line it just dispensed.
The second sweep is for verbal tics, which can range anywhere from monosyllabic standbys–we’re talking “ums” and “uhs”–to polysyllabic wonders such as “essentially.” The third and final sweep focuses on odd words I’ve been employing at greater frequency. For me, it’s been “insofar” and “shithouse.” The former will likely be retired, but the latter–acquired from a different business meeting, incidentally–may be here to stay. It is a noun that positively reeks of potential and rich imagery.
Having said all this, I realize I may be overthinking matters here. I recall a seminar in college where students (English majors, mostly) and professor alike eagerly tore into a close textual analysis of Fight Club. Perhaps there truly were deep insights in the script. Or maybe David Fincher just wanted to make a movie about a bunch of dudes beating the shit out of each other.
By the time you read this post tomorrow, I will likely be in the thick of a business meeting-slash-dinner, yet another entry in what feels like a recent deluge of such events. I don’t mean to sound despondent about this. Certainly I understand the appeal of being wined and dined, and there have been a few instances where I’ve seen tangible value borne from these shindigs. They have a place, in other words, and what I am trying to divine is whether I have a place in this picture.
I’m at a crossroads in my career. I’ve made peace with the question of what I want to be. In another universe, I might’ve been a rising chef, or a published author, or a brilliant artist on the verge of unstarving himself–all creative capacities that would require a measure of raw talent I simply lack in this reality. I’ve staked my claim in advertising, for better or for worse, and it’s too late to be a fireman. Or a magician. Or a thief (i.e. Assets Relocation Specialist). Or a jetpack pilot (i.e. Portable Experimental Propulsion Director).
Within the world of advertising, I see two broad paths before me: I can focus on interacting with people or turning inward to a desolate landscape of numbers and spreadsheets. Did Sophie ever consider killing both her children, I wonder, thereby availing herself a third choice? Naturally these two paths can overlap, but there’s the spread for you. Numbers would be safer, albeit far more tedious. People would be draining, and yet this path seems to hold the greatest monetary potential.
Let’s say I chose the path of human interaction. Feels like it’s an important skill to cultivate anyhow, you know? These meetings and dinners draw from a fundamental need to mingle, to cluster. They also ride on this hope–a correlation that still puzzles me on occasion–that chatting and supping together will ultimately lead to an exchange of money. Meanwhile, on the other end of the advertising spectrum, business is being democratized and shifting to an auction-based model, where the value of a transaction rides not on ounces of steak or bottles of wine, but rather on what the market can bear. That’s a decidedly people-free way of doing business.
And therein lies my current struggle. As much as it would seem like I’d lobby for this marketplace model, I appreciate the idea of being wined and dined. It’s this notion of exclusivity. Being special. Yes, the bill for that steak dinner really is four digits wide and climbing. Yes, my business warrants a trip to the Masters. But I realize I can’t have my cake and eat it too. Either I must pass on it, or I must eat it with others, at an honest dinner table, where the proverbial cake is preceded by a glass of port, which will be declined gracefully.
Tonight’s post is brought to you–hand-delivered to your mental porch–with the profoundest ennui, the origins of which I’ve been trying to locate. I’d like to take a break from communicating, crazy as that sounds. Simple conversations are draining. Reading e-mails requires a sizable investment of energy, and as for replying to them or, heaven forbid, composing one from scratch? Let us use the screeching sound your car makes when you try to turn the engine twice over, if we may, for illustrative purposes.
Perhaps this is fallout from my recent run at normalcy, or maybe it’s merely a timely form of protest. Whatever the case may be, I simply want to say, “Shut the eff up!” And then harvest, truly treasure, the precious quantity of silence found in the wake of this declaration. Should you also want a measure of silence, well, I’m sorry, because I plan on keeping it all to myself.
Napping is all I have scheduled for this weekend. Just generous amounts of shuteye. My desire to go incommunicado, in the parlance of Spaniards, may actually be a case of me getting surly from lack of sleep. I’ve been averaging six hours of rest a night for the past week or so, and I imagine it can’t be healthy. During the course of one of these evenings, I was also privy to one of the most grotesque and startlingly detailed nightmares in recent memory. I need to right my brain. Calendar’s been blocked out for sweet, sweet oblivion, and the appointment starts now.