For two days last week, I attended a conference as part of my internship. One thing became abundantly clear to me during that time.
I am not a talker.
Of course, I’ve known this for years, but it became even more obvious to me when I was in that setting. “Small talk,” as they call it, is not my thing. Give me a topic that I care about, and I’ll talk to you about it for hours. You and I both know that neither of us cares what the weather is going to be like.
Unless there is going to be a freak snowstorm in July, then I want to know that shit. It is Indiana after all.
Unfortunately, I’ve learned that many large gatherings of professional people inevitably involve scheduled time for “networking.” Or as I like to call it, “nightmare.” I usually end up finding a remote corner and reading or going to my car. Some people may think it’s sad that I’m off by myself, but it doesn’t bother me. I just need time to decompress.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I can and do talk to people on a regular basis. If the talking isn’t about anything important though, I’d rather not do it at all.
Over the years, I’ve become more and more comfortable with this part of me that is different from many of my friends and family.
I’m not stuck-up. I’m not a bitch. I’m not weird. I’m just quiet.
And that’s alright with me.