Close to 100 name tags were spread on the table near the door of the event – the invitation to which I’d affirmatively responded over a month before. So although I’d almost rather be pushed out of an airplane at several thousand feet than walk into a room full of strangers alone, I approached the welcome table without fear. I’d received an invitation, I’d said I would be coming, and I was confident that I could at least navigate the name tag bit without much angst.
My bolstered confidence quickly vaporized when I didn’t see my name.
The facts didn’t matter so much anymore. Because I didn’t have a pre-printed nametag like all the others I saw, I suddenly felt awkward. Undeserving. Like I was sneaking into a movie I wasn’t big enough to see. Like my invitation had somehow been a mistake.
On about rep 11 of a set of 15 exquisitely-designed tortures devised by my half-my-age-but-twice-as-buff trainer, I was struggling. He noticed. (He always does.) My arms were beginning to wobble a little, and I couldn’t see it, but I’m pretty sure my face was red.
“Come on,” he said, “breathe. Push through. It’s the last three that count.”
These are the sort of words you should never say to someone who “does words” for a living, and is in just enough pain to be a smart aleck. I immediately found the breath to say, “If only the last three count, let’s just skip the first 12.”