mies of top performers. Pablo Casals complained of lifelong stage
fright. Carly Simon curtailed live performances because of it. A
friend of mine who worked with Neil Diamond said he insisted
the words to “Song Sung Blue,” a tune he’d been crooning for forty
years, be displayed on his teleprompter, lest fear freeze him into
forgetfulness.
Is Small-Talk-a-Phobia Curable?
Someday, scientists say, communications fears may be treatable
with drugs. They’re already experimenting with Prozac to change
people’s personalities. But some fear disastrous side effects. The
good news is that when human beings think, and genuinely feel,
certain emotions—like confidence that they have specific tech-
niques to fall back on—the brain manufactures its own antidotes.
If fear and distaste of small talk is the disease, knowing solid tech-
niques like the ones we explore in this section is the cure.
Incidentally, science is beginning to recognize it’s not chance
or even upbringing that one person has a belly of butterflies and
another doesn’t.
In our brains, neurons communicate through
chemicals called neurotransmitters. Some people have excessive
levels of a neurotransmitter
called norepinephrine, a chemical
cousin of adrenaline. For some children, just walking into a kinder-
garten room makes them want to run and hide under a table.
As a tot, I spent a lot of time under the table. As a preteen in
an all-girls boarding school, my legs turned to linguine every time
I had to converse with a male. In eighth grade, I once had to invite
a boy to our school prom. The entire selection of dancing males
lived in the dormitory of our brother school. And I only knew one
resident, Eugene. I had met Eugene at summer camp the year
before. Mustering all my courage, I decided to call him.
Two weeks before the dance, I felt the onset of sweaty palms.
I put the call off. One week before, rapid heartbeat set in. I put
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the call off. Finally, three days before the big bash,
breathing
became difficult. Time was running out.
The critical moment, I rationalized, would be easier if I read
from a script. I wrote out the following: “Hi, this is Leil. We met
at camp last summer. Remember?” (I
programmed in a pause
where I hoped he would say “yes.”) “Well, National Cathedral
School’s prom is this Saturday night and I’d like you to be my
date.” (I programmed in another pause where I prayed he’d say
“yes.”)
On Thursday before the dance, I could no longer delay the
inevitable. I picked up the receiver and dialed. Clutching the
phone waiting for Eugene to answer, my eyes followed perspira-
tion droplets rolling down my arm and dripping off my elbow. A
small salty puddle was forming around my feet. “Hello?” a sexy,
deep male voice answered the dorm phone.
In faster-than-a-speeding-bullet voice, like a nervous novice
telemarketer, I shot out, “Hi, this is Leil. We-met-at-camp—last-
summer-remember?” Forgetting to pause for his assent, I raced on,
“Well-National-Cathedral-School’s-prom-is-this-Saturday-night-
and-I’d-like-you-to-be-my-date.”
To my relief and delight, I heard a big, cheerful “Oh that’s
great, I’d love to!” I exhaled my first normal breath all day. He con-
tinued, “I’ll pick you up at the girl’s dorm at 7:30. I’ll
have a pink
carnation for you. Will that go with your dress? And my name is
Donnie.”
Donnie? Donnie! Who said anything about Donnie?
Well, Donnie turned out to be the best date I had that decade.
Donnie had buckteeth, a head full of tousled red hair, and com-
munications skills that immediately put me at ease.
On Saturday night, Donnie greeted me at the door, carnation
in hand and grin on face. He joked self-deprecatingly about how
he was dying to go to the prom so, knowing it was a case of mis-
taken identity, he accepted anyway. He told me he was thrilled
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