The Face of a Woman

Prior to my incredibly lucrative career as a professional blogger (ahem), I was a motivational speaker.

You can laugh. It’s funny to me too.

[This is the same girl whose signature photo features her in a laundry basket eating Pringles, right?]

Most of the motivational speaking I did was business-related.

[That’s rich! Did they let you wear those pink, fuzzy slippers while you “motivated” others?]

I conducted seminars on topics like “Conflict Management Skills for Women.”

Okay, you can stop laughing now.

I taught assertive communication styles in the workplace, stress management, and—one of my absolute favorite topics—body language.

I think it is FASCINATING what the human body does when we don’t even realize it. I’ll give you an example from my own experience:

The first two times I ever spoke in public, I blacked out. No kidding.

BLACKED. OUT.

Apparently, with absolutely no warning, I had a bit of what doctors call a panic attack. While I was still at the podium, my tongue swelled, I broke out in a cold sweat, and my knees gave way. People actually thought I was having a stroke. Of course, I thought, “This must be the end.” Apparently, my body decided it preferred the “flight” rather than the “fight” reaction to stress.

Because I’m a warrior like that.

It was an interesting hurdle to overcome because I truly had no warning when it would start, nor did I know why I was so anxious. I spent most of my life on the stage, and, let’s be honest, I’m not exactly embarrassed to put myself “out there.” Have you seen my videos? Exactly.

Yet, it took me years to get to the point where I was completely confident, comfortable and vertical during a presentation.

I have noticed many things about myself throughout my research on body language, and one of the most obvious is that I have virtually NO control over my own face.

If I’m happy, you’ll know it.

If I’m angry, oh…you’ll know it.

If something smells awful, it’s written all over my face.

If someone sings off key, I have no way to hide my displeasure.

I’m a horrible, horrible person to take to a middle school performance of Les Misérables. I may think I’ve hidden my discomfort with a polite smile when, in reality, my face screams, “STOP THE TORTURE!”

It’s a curse, actually. I had to give up my dream of becoming a professional poker player. 

Brian can read me as easily as a Dr. Seuss book. And I do not like it Sam-I-am.

So, as I sorted through the 40,000 images on my computer this week, it came as no surprise to me that I had more than a few readable expressions in there. We’ll call these my “Dr. Seuss moments.”

This one is entitled:  “I do not like you in my house.”

I named this masterpiece, “I do not like your ugly blouse.”

Another favorite:  “I do not like your face right there.”

Finally, “I do not like you anywhere.”

In my defense I was pregnant in two of these photos. And I was nursing in another one.

I blame hormones.

Always.