Before I go shopping, I like to rationally assess my needs. After surveying my closet I find, for example, the following gaps in my wardrobe:
- one off-white sweater to wear with (previously purchased but never worn) fancy, pink, silk skirt to my former housemate’s wedding next month
- off-white dress shoes, heels not too high
- about 5 pairs of black socks
Then I head to the mall. For the first half hour or so, I dutifully ignore everything but off-white sweaters. After finding and trying on three, I start to think that there may not be an off-white sweater in the entire world that has a chance of looking good. My outlook grows glum. While half-heartedly looking for the off-white shoes, I spot an beautiful bright blue lambswool sweater with embroidered dragonflies in colored thread, available for $195, which absolutely must be paired with a super-cool retro-print paisley shirt ($98) and artfully-faded denim jeans ($158). Dimly realizing that my budget will not support such extravagance, I settle for the $65 tee-shirt on the next rack, which, as I realize 3 weeks later, is not only overpriced, but in fact 3 sizes too small and only looks good on anorexic models. Oh– and I didn’t need another tee-shirt.
Lately I have realized that the way too avoid such tragic mistakes is simple: EAT FOOD AT THE FIRST SIGN OF WEAKNESS. Usually, shopping disasters strike when I have forgotten to eat lunch, and my blood sugar is low. Backed up by a strong tea, I can manage to recover my senses and steer away from draining my wallet.
Unfortunately the same option is not available when I give scientific talks. Now, I love giving talks. And I give absolutely fantastic talks of less than 20 minutes. For that brief period of time, I am utterly convinced that my results are the most fascinating thing I have ever heard, and my duty is to communicate them to the world, for oh, how will the world benefit! Riding high on the waves of nervousness and adrenaline, my every word is crystal clear, my eye contact is serene and direct, my use of the laser pointer is exemplary!
Not so for 45-minute talks. About 25 minutes in, my carefully-conceived, rational goals (describe my recently-published calculation method, illustrate in detail how it works on a case of particular interest, and outline in general how it might be applied to a variety of further cases of interest to the field, for example) begin to fade. I grow tired. My eyes lose focus. The remaining 48 slides I have to get through before ending start to seem personally oppressive. I start to wish I had never derived all these results so I wouldn’t have to describe them. I wonder why I didn’t pick some other problem to look at that would have produced prettier slides. Conversely, I wonder whether the pretty slides I have might not conceal some lack of subtle understanding on the topic.
Then (eventually) it ends. People ask questions, I answer. Afterwards, everyone says the talk is good. And it probably was. The fact that I carefully plan the conceptual flow of the talk ahead of time guarantees a certain level of clarity. But what sticks in my mind is how tired I was, how I probably didn’t sound very excited or confident, and how I flubbed the transition on Slide #42. For a few hours I am glum.
All this could be solved very simply and cheaply with the same method I use while shopping. I just need a few minutes in the middle to sit down, eat, oh, chocolate-jam cookies, sip some strong Darjeeling tea, and recover my senses. Unfortunately, this is not encouraged. If I’m ever influential and famous enough to get away with it, I’m going to have to start this tradition. Colloquium speakers will thank me. So will audiences. I call for a mandatory three-minute stretch break in the middle of the seminar! And cookies for the speaker.