I am the queen of BS.
I don't mean to be immodest -- no, wait. That's a lie. Let's not add deceit to my list of crimes.
In this instance, I mean to be perfectly immodest. The ability to pull a relevant, involved, well-structured, adequately-supported term paper out of the ether seven hours before it's due and still get four hours of uneasy sleep is the academic equivalent of Chuck Norris riding a unicorn over a double rainbow while showing you how to achieve a fully rounded abdominal workout for only three easy payments of $19.99.
Likewise, the successful conception, creation and execution of a presentation inside a matter of hours is a skill to be envied. Studies show that the top three fears of Americans are (1) public speaking, (2) spiders and (3) death.
Public speaking is scary. Deep inside us, something snaps when we get up in front of a room of our peers and prepare to speak. We think that we'll trip, or stutter, or forget a point, or forget to zip our fly, and somehow, we'll end up naked, scorned and unprepared before an audience of thousands that includes the president, your mom and that guy you've liked since you were seven. We care so much about what other people think of us that even though every single other person in the room as just as scared of you as you are of them (which, incidentally, is the same argument commonly used against the fear of spiders, where it is equally ineffective and just as frustratingly useless), the jagged, electrified cloud of rejection looms over us during that long walk up to the podium-shaped gallows.
Unlike most people, I've always enjoyed public speaking. I get nervous, sure, but it's more the anticipation that looms in your gut before a roller coaster plummets toward the ground, rather than the crippling horror that you'll soon be fleeing an angry, heavily armed mob that you helped incite. Whatever fear I once held of the activity has been flayed out of me during my years as a communication major. (The flaying of the communications department, contrary to popular opinion, is not done with an overly soft pillow stuffed with down; it's actually a whip made of the dreams we comm. majors once held of making enough money to pay back our student loans or being qualified to work anywhere more prestigious or less greasy than McDonald's.)
Frankly, public speaking's not that hard. You're just having a really organized, overwhelmingly one-sided conversation with a room full of people, all of whom are listening to you without interruption.
Okay, so it's nothing like a conversation. But, I think most people fail to realize that everyone in the room wants you to succeed. It's torture for everybody when a speaker stands up and completely bombs. When someone proceeds to fail in simply incredible ways in front of a group of their peers, it's like the room lets out a massive psychic groan, and everyone proceeds to zone out and wait for the pain to stop.
In the last couple of weeks, I've given maybe five speeches, none of which were terribly difficult. Some required more preparation that I'm usually willing to grant -- measured in days rather than hours or minutes -- but in that time, I've also witnessed a couple dozen presentations by my fellow students. Anyone who has ever had to endure the class periods consumed by group or individual term presentations feels my pain, and will recognize these brands of speakers:
1. The Dependent
These speakers are fairly certain that the world will immediately be consumed by baleful fire if they glance away from their notes for so much as a second. Of course, you don't know if their notes are actually a primeval text in the tongue of the Old Ones, only the active and uninterrupted reading of which is preserving all life and creation, because they are reading their notes to their notes. The paper is so close to their face that you can't possibly hear a word they say; hunched over like an abused puppy, trying to make themselves as small a target as possible for the deadly lasers that are surely hissing from your eyes, all you can grasp is a quiet, terrified mumbling.
2. The Freeze-Tag
These guys have been frozen in place by some malevolent villain. Despite the fact that the entire front of the room is open to them, their feet never move. Sometimes, they almost shift their weight, and everyone leans forward, waiting, hoping that maybe, just...maybe...they will free themselves from their invisible bonds and step forth, away from the computer, into the rest of the room. They gaze around like deer caught behind a fence -- and not just any deer. No, deer that specifically lack significant problem-solving capacities usually boasted by other deer. They're just...trapped. It makes you anxious just to watch them suffer.
3. The Smooth Operator
These guys get away with never doing work because they're relatively smooth to begin with. They're good at getting people to like them, and they count on that skill rather than research or preparation to create a successful presentation. They talk in circles, but never actually say anything, because they've got nothing to say. In groups, they don't do a damned thing; rather, they lean on everyone else, rephrasing their points or just sneaking in random transitions between topics to make you feel like they contributed. (Read: Politicians.)
4. The Rash
Usually, these guys do just fine -- except that, as soon as they step in front of a class, they appear to be suffering from some awful, horrifying, debilitating disease. Their nervousness, refused access to the brain and unable to suddenly block access to thoughts and words, rebels and channels through the skin, creating weird, alien blotches of red all over their face, neck and hands. I always want to lean back in my chair, to get as far away from them as possible, because while their presentation might be fine, I'm terrified of catching some horrible plague that will eventually kill everyone I've ever known and loved.
This is to say nothing of the PowerPoints people create to "compliment" their speeches. It seems like there's no happy medium.
It's either, "Wait. There are not enough words in that bullet point to make me grasp the idea or event you are attempting to convey."
Or, "OH, MY GOD! IT'S A MONSTER WALL OF TEXT, WITH NO RELIEF IN SIGHT! SAVE US!"
To which, I reply: tl;dr.
Avalon, out.
PS - Spiders are legitimately terrifying, and this post should by no means be interpreted as a jibe against people who squeal like skewered baby pigs when an arachnid appears.
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"Did that dog just crap a bloody shoe?"
