I have this condition where I don't know I'm nervous. I'm cool, calm, and collected most of the time--blasé as my friend calls it--so, I don't FEEL nervous. However, over the years I have learned to RECOGNIZE when I'm nervous. I can tell when I get nervous because I start to sweat. My palms go first, my underarms second, and my brain is third. My brain is actually surprised every time it happens. "My palms are clammy. My underarms are hot. Oh, hey! I guess I'm nervous!"
Last June my three-piece Italian style suit and I sat in an office. I was being interviewed for a job. It was the first time I'd interviewed for a job in 4 years and it was probably the most prestigious job for which I'd ever been interviewed.
It was summery warm. The office was glass and no bigger than a shoebox. Small enough that the three of us inside the office (myself and the two interviewing me) had to sit with our knees touching one another.
As they probed me with questions, I began to sweat. Profusely. No way to hide it, running down my face, had to wipe it away, somebody hand me a handkerchief perspiring. Which was mortifying. Which only made the situation worse.
I thought the job was no big deal. I thought I didn't really care about it. If this job didn't pan out, another one would. It wasn't until I was walking away in my damp dress shirt, dejected with disaster, I realized I must have wanted it much more than I thought.
I bring this up because--looking back--I realize high school must have been one never-ending, anxiety-filled mess. I didn't feel like a mess. I felt quite put together. Academically, I excelled--and if the bullies were seeking scapegoats they never checked the black box theatre. But, I've never been very good socially. And high school is a social pressure cooker. One period of gym and 7 more periods working out your nerves.
In summer I would blame it on the heat. In winter I'd blame it on the fleece. I even wondered if it was happening to everyone else and I just didn't know it. Being the certifiably dry (humor and otherwise), self-assured person I am now, I realize that wasn't the case. I even resorted to wearing underarm pads at one point. It was that severe.
I remember one evening I was hanging out with my friends Marc and Katie. They were playing the most wonderfully horrible game. You raise your arms above your head. Someone pins down your legs while another pins down your arms. Then, they give you a task to do--name 10 state capitals for instance--while they tickle you nonstop. The tickling only ceases once the task is accomplished.
It was quite hysterical to watch people loose all mental capabilities and fight their way through the tickling's physical dominance. Everyone else had done their turn. They asked me to do it. I declined. Not because I was afraid of the tickling; I was afraid of raising my arms. I knew my armpits were unsuitable for any hand. The spotty sight of my darkened shirt alone was embarrassing enough to decline. There was no way I could let people pin my arms above my head and put their hands in there!
They badgered me. They said everyone else had done it and I wasn't allowed to leave until I had done it too. I finally finagled them into letting me get something from my car first. I came back with a thick leather jacket on. They teased me for trying to cheat the system, pointing out my jacket would dampen the effect of the tickling. In reality, I was just mortified to have my armpits exposed and knew the leather would cover it. Even though they teased me for trying to cheat, I was RELIEVED they interpreted my actions that way versus the actual alternative.
Too bad the job interview didn't ask me what my most embarrassing moment was. I could have just relayed that story. Given the Niagra spramp happening down my face they probably felt I was already embarrassed enough. And, they were right.
If you could go back and tell your younger self one thing, what would it be? Another classic interview question. I guess that's the thing. The whole point of this. I'm proud of the person I've become and the discoveries I've made. I've become confident and solidified enough in who I am that I don't sweat it anymore.* And, I wish I could instill some of that in that poor, socially insecure, overweight high school kid who must have internally trembled his way to graduation.
Perhaps that's the reason why we sweat when we get nervous: to counteract the trembling; to keep the chaffing at bay and come away relatively unscathed.
*Except in interviews, or auditions, or on dates
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