Well … I beg to differ.
Now I don’t mind sweating when sweating is appropriate. Like on a tennis court. You’re supposed to sweat on a tennis court; if you don’t fling around fist-sized drops of perspiration when you shake your head or mop buckets of moisture off your forehead with your wristbands, it’s a surefire indication that you’re not doing what you’re supposed to be doing.
Working up a sweat.
But not in a live professional presentation before hundreds of people.
Yet that’s what happened to me a couple weeks ago when I was all set to do a Facebook Live presentation for a writer’s conference. I had painstakingly prepared my speech, polished my presentation to blinding gleam, and convinced my main techie (poor, longsuffering Spouse) to set up a mini-studio in my living room, complete with cool backdrop, wireless mic and professional-quality studio lighting.
We were scheduled to go live at 6 pm.
Then at 4 pm, I was just finishing my last pre-dress-rehearsal run-through when a bead of sweat the size of a kumquat trickled down my back. I thought it was nerves. Until Spouse walked in the house and hollered, “Hey! Why does it feel like a sauna in here?”
Yup. The house AC had gone MIA. In central Florida. With 90% humidity. In July.
You know the old saying: When sweat rains, it pours. (Or something like that.) By the time I started attempting to fix my hair and apply make-up, it was 87 degrees. INSIDE the house.
I could almost hear Satan’s gleeful cackle as I took my place before the camera with a blindingly shiny face, flat lifeless hair (that appeared like I’d just stepped out of my pool, except that I don’t have a pool), half-moon underarm dark blotches on my pretty pink blouse with two distinct wet circles in front strategically highlighting Freddie and Flopsie (the bobbing twins), and beads of make-up dripping off my chin.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
And then right in the middle of my LIVE (did you catch that? LIVE means LIVE; no corrections or re-do’s!) presentation, the AC lady (yes, I said lady – go girls!) shows up. Our front door is ten feet away from my make-shift living room studio. DING. DONG. BANG. BANG. Oh, no distraction here.
But boy was I glad to see her. Within 30 minutes, she’d magically turned hades into heaven and I ended up besting that ole devil with the last laugh. I finished my presentation with panache.
And a pina colada. (Not really, but a girl can dream.)
Okay, girlfriend, your turn – when was the last time you got the last laugh when everything went wrong?