Sunday Newscape Magazine

There’s a reason I’m a writer and not a speaker. I can barely give a speech to my dogs without looking like a complete idiot. But the memory just ain’t what it used to be, and every once in a while, I forget how lousy I am at public speaking. So, in a moment of weakness, I agree to give a speech.

That’s what happened recently, and as always, this is how it went:

I received an invitation to speak from sadly misinformed folks who expected me to be entertaining. Succumbing to flattery, I accepted the invitation, then spent the next week in a cold sweat, trying to figure out how to get out of it. I rehearsed a number of excuses, even wondered if I could persuade my doctor to diagnose a complete mental breakdown.

Finally, after enduring expressions of disgust from my husband and kids - even the dogs looked at me with disdain - I decided I really should give the speech. It would, after all, enhance my reputation and build my character. And goodness knows, I could use some of that.

So I spent a couple more weeks in productive, pre-speech activities. I read books on speech writing. I talked incessantly about writing my speech. I stared at the computer and vowed to start very soon. I drank a lot of coffee, ate too many donuts, did laundry, checked my email 15 times a day. To stimulate the speechifying part of my brain, I took numerous naps, during which I dreamed I was giving my speech naked to a retching audience.

Eventually, I awoke in a panic to the realization that the speech was only 48 hours away, and all I’d written was the title. So I wrote feverishly. Then I attempted to memorize my speech. I practiced giving it in front of the mirror, making a mental note to check for protruding nose hairs on speech day.

I ransacked my closet looking for something dignified, but not stuffy. Stylish, but not sexy. Something that wouldn’t show sweat stains. I settled on black slacks and a dark shirt, something that looked about as funereal as I felt.

The dreaded day arrived. The room in which I was to speak was ice-cold, but still, I was sweating. When my name was called, I staggered toward the stage, tripping over my own feet.

I’d expected a podium, but there was only a wireless microphone. My speech was balled up in my fist, so I had to try to smooth it out with my trembling hands. Naturally, I dropped the mic and had to bend over in front of everybody to pick it up.

When I started to speak, my voice squeaked. Then, as usually happens when I go completely to pieces, I began to giggle uncontrollably. Plus, I kept nervously touching my pants zipper with the hand holding my speech, convinced I could feel cold air down there because my fly was open. Audience members gave each other alarmed glances, but they applauded politely when - a thousand years later - I finally finished the (expletive-deleted) speech.

I’d like to say my reputation was enhanced by giving it. But I don’t like to lie.

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved www.jackiepapandrew.com