I am of a certain age where reunions start to gain some sort of significance. I am young enough to know that a lot of my classmates are probably still alive, but old enough to not know that fact for sure. I have marked a date on my calendar to find out. I will be attending the 35th reunion of my graduating class from the school I attended as a youngster. I am not sure which is more surprising; the fact that I am attending a reunion after 35 years or that it has been 35 years since my class graduated. I say my class, because I left after what was called 5th Form (grade 12 to you colonists) so that I could see what life was like with girls in a classroom. I must say that was rather a welcome change. Not that there weren’t benefits to being in an all male school... Okay, so after a few minutes of reflection, I didn’t come up with that many benefits.
One of my old roommates made me aware of the reunion. He now lives in Toronto, or one of those outlying areas that people who don’t live in Toronto, call Toronto. He is a friend of a woman who is the wife of a guy who attended the school and with who works with my older brother - who also went to the school. Try saying that again. My roommate, Eric, got my email address and we started to exchange notes and catch up with each other. Other than the occasional hello and small talk with former students at the school who live in Kingston, I haven’t really seen or even heard of anyone from my class since I left the school in 1972.
Throughout the years I have always kept an eye on the Report on Business from the Globe and Mail to see if any of the guys I went to school with turned up in the pages. You know the articles: “Wunderkind Stock Market Analyst Nailed For Fraudulent Stock Promotion - You Know, The Guy Who Used To Room With Scottie in 4th Form At Brent House”. But the pages of the Globe have constantly been bereft of this sort of salacious news.
Not that I think of these things in a competitive way, but at the School we were raised with a certain amount of competitiveness within what was known as the Little Big Four of the private school circuit. Ridley College in St. Catharines, St. Andrews College in Aurora, Upper Canada College in Toronto and my school, Trinity College School in Port Hope, made up the group. To say that the other schools have best us in this regard is rather shaming in a way. I always did my utmost to pound the other schools as best as I could on the football field, the cricket pitch (yes, it is possible to pound someone on a cricket pitch) or in the gymnasium.
In all honesty, to see their names pop up in news circles when our school was conspicuous in its absence, is a little humiliating. I guess it must be that they taught us ethics or something. I mean we never had the scandals like UCC old boys always seem to have. All we have had were a couple titans of business and few MP’s. What is there to brag about there?
Now, I am not saying that my classmates are not capable of some heinous crime of state or finance; it could be that there have just not been caught. Or to paraphrase Henry David Thoreau -now that would impress my English Master who for the most part was thoroughly unimpressed by me- it may be that my fellow classmates are slaves to their jobs and lead lives in quiet desperation. Either way, it will be interesting to see where their lives have taken them.
I was asked to come up with a specific memory or moment at the school that has endured with me. Try as I may to remember, there really wasn’t a particular moment that crystallized my time there. Perhaps it was because I spent such a long period there that instead of it being a focus of my life, it was more of a constant. I was fortunate that for about half my time there I had two of my older brothers running point for me, paving the way, so to speak. So, in a way it was like family. These were guys I slept, ate, played sports with and learned with (okay, so some learned more than I). I went through times of discovery, disappointment and even at that young age, disillusionment. So to really capsulize a particular moment is difficult. Maybe it in 1970 when I returned from Michaelmas term break (Christmas holidays in the real world) after a trip to The Bahamas with a pair of shockingly white bell bottom jeans. I thought they contrasted particularly well with my tan, but mere moments after stepping out of my dorm, the Headmaster loudly pointed out that indeed, “Mr. Scott, this is not a discotheque!” And for all those years I labored under that misguided belief. Perhaps it is my ability to still be able to conjugate the verb, “to love” in Latin or in an uninterrupted flow of words that seem to come out like one word, still be able to recite the entire dinner grace, again in Latin and in one breath.
However, one constant that I learned from my time there that has served me well and still serves me today. It was a lesson I have carried from day one of my attendance at the school. It was there on my graduation from university, on my first job interview and as well on my wedding day. I know it will be with me on the day my children get married and every other important marker in my life until the final moment the lid on my casket is shut. The lesson learned that is so important? I know how to tie a full Windsor.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
First Impressions
No matter what your age, your social standing or your education, there doesn’t ever seem to be an end to the anxiety raised by making first impressions. They cross all boundaries; not only are they pivotal in your job and in social situations, but they influence almost every aspect of daily life. We all has that fear that one of these times, our foot will be planted inadvertently, but firmly in our mouth - from our first day at school to our final introduction at the pearly gates (Well, you see God... you are God, aren’t you? It was like this...).
First impressions lay the foundations for any future relationships and that only raises the emotional stakes. I always hated meeting people for the first time, mostly because of an absolute lack of confidence in myself; how could anyone except truly deranged and abnormal people, find me of any interest. Combine this with a genetic ability to blush to the point that even Rudolph couldn’t hold a candle to my reddish glow, you can get a rough idea of how much I enjoy first meetings. But I struggled through them, always trying to use my humour and limited charm to make people believe that I might be an asset at some time. There is nothing worse than having your first meeting with someone end up with you crying your eyes out and wetting your pants. Fortunately for me, that happened when I was two and not at any time recently. However, that is not to say that recently I didn’t feel like crying my eyes out and wetting my pants.
Many factors can go into a successful first impression. There are all of those readily recognized external things, like your appearance and the way you carry yourself. But also, and I think more important, there are the internal ones - the feeling that you are the one, the absolute Zen of it all, that exuded confidence and feeling of being in control that seems to carry you through. Sometimes you can emerge from one of these meetings amazed at the length of time that has gone by.
But on occasion, even with the most attention to detail applied, a small distraction can disrupt everything. In one meeting I had, we were two guys that were trying to make that first big impression with a Calgary company that signaled that we were the people and the product to be carried by them. Part of this preparation involved the delicate balance of our appearance.
I know of many first impressions that are lost in the greyness of being somewhere between over-dressed or underdressed. The meeting we had arranged called for the complete package. I, most normally found in jeans (clean on important occasions) was dressed in an smartly cut suit. Around my neck I wore a tie that made a statement; what the hell it said was beyond me, but apparently it yelled. There we were, two guys power dressed, ready for anything. We probably should have slammed each others shoulders and growled as we pumped each other up, but as refined men of the power elite, we compliment on another on our natty attire and put the finishing touches to our appearance.
Standing in front of the large bathroom mirror in the hotel room, I contemplated my appearance. I adjusted my tie, making sure the full Windsor sat squarely, when I noticed the shaving kit on the bathroom counter. Among the many things that spilled out was a small bottle of Dippity-Do hair gel. I looked at it with a mild level of shock. I called out to my business partner, asking him to come in the bathroom. I held the bottle like some sort of accusatory piece of evidence. He came in and asked me, "What?" I just said, "Dippity-Do?" He replied that his hair was really fine and the gel helped it stay in place. "Yes, but Dippity-Do?” I stammered. “Couldn't you use something with a name a bit more masculine? Maybe Oil of Whale Testicles or something? If I only knew about this earlier, I am sure we could have knocked off that Doo-Wop guy singing on the corner and scored his tube of Brylcreem. Don't you know that every time I look over at you during the meeting I will be thinking that everyone else in the room will be staring at your hair and texting each other with, 'Is that Dippity-Do in his hair?'"
A stutter was his best response. “Why don’t you just slap on a tutu, go into the meeting on your tippy toes and give them all a big, wet, sloppy kiss. It would have the same effect!” To say I was unsettled would be to minimize my state; unfortunately the whole thing went south from there.
Probably the most significant first impression and one that stays in someone’s memory the longest is “meeting the parents”. Nothing causes more hand wrenching and foot shuffling than that moment. But now that I am positioned to be the parent who is being met, I can say with honesty it is almost as gut wrenching to be met.
All the ideas I entertained over the years of greeting the future spouses of my children - with such lovable antics such as blowing loudly on a empty paper towel tube and then emerging with a whoosh from a darkened hallway dressed in tights and a towel for a cape proclaiming myself to be SuperDad have gone by the wayside. I am now leaning towards the funny, but subdued and understanding parent. Having raised my children I know what lurks behind that happy and pleasant exterior. I also know what evil can lurk in their beating little hearts. So if I want them to move out anytime soon, I better not scare anybody off.
First impressions lay the foundations for any future relationships and that only raises the emotional stakes. I always hated meeting people for the first time, mostly because of an absolute lack of confidence in myself; how could anyone except truly deranged and abnormal people, find me of any interest. Combine this with a genetic ability to blush to the point that even Rudolph couldn’t hold a candle to my reddish glow, you can get a rough idea of how much I enjoy first meetings. But I struggled through them, always trying to use my humour and limited charm to make people believe that I might be an asset at some time. There is nothing worse than having your first meeting with someone end up with you crying your eyes out and wetting your pants. Fortunately for me, that happened when I was two and not at any time recently. However, that is not to say that recently I didn’t feel like crying my eyes out and wetting my pants.
Many factors can go into a successful first impression. There are all of those readily recognized external things, like your appearance and the way you carry yourself. But also, and I think more important, there are the internal ones - the feeling that you are the one, the absolute Zen of it all, that exuded confidence and feeling of being in control that seems to carry you through. Sometimes you can emerge from one of these meetings amazed at the length of time that has gone by.
But on occasion, even with the most attention to detail applied, a small distraction can disrupt everything. In one meeting I had, we were two guys that were trying to make that first big impression with a Calgary company that signaled that we were the people and the product to be carried by them. Part of this preparation involved the delicate balance of our appearance.
I know of many first impressions that are lost in the greyness of being somewhere between over-dressed or underdressed. The meeting we had arranged called for the complete package. I, most normally found in jeans (clean on important occasions) was dressed in an smartly cut suit. Around my neck I wore a tie that made a statement; what the hell it said was beyond me, but apparently it yelled. There we were, two guys power dressed, ready for anything. We probably should have slammed each others shoulders and growled as we pumped each other up, but as refined men of the power elite, we compliment on another on our natty attire and put the finishing touches to our appearance.
Standing in front of the large bathroom mirror in the hotel room, I contemplated my appearance. I adjusted my tie, making sure the full Windsor sat squarely, when I noticed the shaving kit on the bathroom counter. Among the many things that spilled out was a small bottle of Dippity-Do hair gel. I looked at it with a mild level of shock. I called out to my business partner, asking him to come in the bathroom. I held the bottle like some sort of accusatory piece of evidence. He came in and asked me, "What?" I just said, "Dippity-Do?" He replied that his hair was really fine and the gel helped it stay in place. "Yes, but Dippity-Do?” I stammered. “Couldn't you use something with a name a bit more masculine? Maybe Oil of Whale Testicles or something? If I only knew about this earlier, I am sure we could have knocked off that Doo-Wop guy singing on the corner and scored his tube of Brylcreem. Don't you know that every time I look over at you during the meeting I will be thinking that everyone else in the room will be staring at your hair and texting each other with, 'Is that Dippity-Do in his hair?'"
A stutter was his best response. “Why don’t you just slap on a tutu, go into the meeting on your tippy toes and give them all a big, wet, sloppy kiss. It would have the same effect!” To say I was unsettled would be to minimize my state; unfortunately the whole thing went south from there.
Probably the most significant first impression and one that stays in someone’s memory the longest is “meeting the parents”. Nothing causes more hand wrenching and foot shuffling than that moment. But now that I am positioned to be the parent who is being met, I can say with honesty it is almost as gut wrenching to be met.
All the ideas I entertained over the years of greeting the future spouses of my children - with such lovable antics such as blowing loudly on a empty paper towel tube and then emerging with a whoosh from a darkened hallway dressed in tights and a towel for a cape proclaiming myself to be SuperDad have gone by the wayside. I am now leaning towards the funny, but subdued and understanding parent. Having raised my children I know what lurks behind that happy and pleasant exterior. I also know what evil can lurk in their beating little hearts. So if I want them to move out anytime soon, I better not scare anybody off.
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