The talk? It's over.

I have this shirt. It’s pale blue, button down, but meant to be worn untucked, ¾ sleeves with pretty cuffs. This shirt is professional, but in a casual way. It’s perfect for talks that I give, actually. I don’t joke – don’t screw around at all – but I talk like I write. Friendly and easy – I’ll tell you what I think, and you can take it or leave it. I don’t speak with extreme arrogance – I go with casual confidence that can gracefully accept correction if needed. I do this best in my blue shirt.

I gained some weight - without my permission - when I arrived here. Was stressed and alone and quite fond of the red velvet cake, among other southern food not readily available up north. I had to put away my blue shirt because it started to pull funny across the chest. It wasn't awful - just a bit off so that my easy professionalism was now marred by tugging to make sure the material didn't pucker strangely. So I was nervously getting ready that morning, going over slide transitions in my mind, considering which parts of the talk to remove, and which to leave alone, and I wandered into my closet. (It's huge, my closet, so wander is actually appropriate.) I looked longingly at my blue shirt, thinking it would be so nice to give this dreaded seminar wearing it. With gray pants. Black pumps. Hair down and slightly curled. So I put it on, and preened when I saw that it no longer puckered. It fit well - I looked quite nice.

Armed with my ideal talk outfit, I arrived at work to take out yet another slide (this talk shrank significantly over the last 12 hours) and walked down the hall to ask a question on my histograms. I made a face at one of the other post-docs in my group and she smiled back. "You look very nice." She whispered as I moved past her, and I smiled in thanks.

Heading into my boss's office, I greeted his secretary. After asking how I was, she said I looked confident and calm, and I rolled my eyes, telling her it was all fake.

"You look great. I like that shirt."

That earned her a grin. "I like it too. I wasn't able to fit into it before."

"I knew you were getting skinny!" That's southern for you, I thought. I'm nowhere near thin - honestly - but I'm better now than I was. I took a form she had for me and returned to my desk.

“Doing OK?” The woman who shares my office looked up at me and smiled. “You look nice. Very professional.” She offered.

“It’s the shirt. And I'm scared.”

“Don’t be nervous. You’ll do fine.”

“I know.” I sighed irritably – at myself more than her. “It’s that I haven’t done anything this year!” I stated firmly. “I mean, there was the grant and all the starting paperwork, meetings, finishing up a couple papers.” I frowned, trying to decide why I didn’t feel better about myself - I did accomplish something. “But I haven’t taken much data at all – haven’t perfected code or read as much as I could have or put in enough hours on a consistent level. And this seminar – the time I should review my work over this year – is just focused on the fact that there’s nothing to say. So I’ll stand in front of people I like and respect and say … what? 'Here’s more stuff I did in grad school, then there’s some other stuff I happen to know, and here’s a slight variation of what I discussed about a year ago when I interviewed.' Ick.”

I looked at her expectantly – pleased to have articulated why I was so bothered by this particular talk. She looked up, obviously distracted. “I’m sorry. What?”

I shook my head and returned to my laptop. Whispered my way through the talk for one last bit of practice. This is why I write the blog, I thought. Because I can’t find people here who seem to get me. They pat me on the head, sure, and I appreciate it. But nobody understands how badly I feel that it’s not going that well. How sad I am to be so isolated and unproductive. How I have no idea where I’m going or why I’m doing this – what I even want.

Boss came and went over some comments on my histograms, leaving with a customary “Good work!” that I find strangely soothing.

“I should have asked sooner.” He said, turning to look back at me as he stopped his exit from my office. “Is there anything I can do to help with the talk?”

“Can you get me out of it?” I asked sweetly, and he laughed while he shook his head.

“You’ll do fine.” He said, and turned away. He paused to glance over his shoulder, and I blinked at him in surprise when he softly said, “Katie, you’re much harder on yourself than we ever would be.”

Organizer of Seminars arrived shortly after and asked a couple logistical questions about the talk. Microphones, laptop hook-ups, laser pointers and the like. We joked and laughed and I confessed that I was nervous.

“Everyone is. You’ll be fine. You look very nice.” And after confirming the time we’d meet in the gigantic lecture hall (no, it’s not all that big), he too left me alone with my slides. I removed a couple more – if they wanted short, I could accommodate them.

I wrote an email, dealt with my histograms a bit more, then walked to the seminar building. Organizer wasn’t there yet, though the audience had started to arrive. Good deal, I thought, feeling just a bit shaky. I hate to watch people file in, sit down, glance at me. It ruins my general “avoid notice at all costs” plan. Even the pretty blue shirt can't help me with that.

I walked away from the podium and spoke with another post-doc. Then one of my favorite faculty members arrived and we talked for a couple minutes. He and Boss helpfully provided distracting conversation until Organizer arrived. Before I walked to meet him, I smiled tightly at my boss.

“You look good.” Boss offered, and before I could tell him it was the shirt, he continued. “Calm, professional, confident. You’ll do great.”

I walked to the podium, started to speak, reminded myself not to stare at the screen of my laptop. Made eye contact as I should. Pointed sparingly with the laser. I don’t remember much else. I talked insanely fast – my dominant thought being that I wanted this to be over. But I was engrossed in the material and time passed quickly – my 40 minute presentation was over in less than 30, and I relaxed as questions began.

Walking back with Boss et al., I smiled when I remembered how he had waited while several students approached me with individual questions or offers to help with my projects as they came together. As the last of the audience filed out, he walked over and placed an arm around my shoulder, squeezing reassuringly when I looked up and asked if I’d been OK.

“Wonderful.” He’d said. “It’s too bad you get so nervous about these. You do a beautiful job.”

“You really should teach.” One of the other post-docs said as we made our way back to our offices. “You’re confident, but willing to be interrupted.”

I shook my head over the idea of teaching, and turned to look at Boss when he commented on my ease with questions.

“It’s because I don’t mind being wrong. Admitting ignorance. I like learning more than teaching. Plus, I have no experience in front of a room full of students, and you’d have to force me through the door for me to get any practice. It’s just … terrifying.”

Luckily, we reached the point where I headed right to my office and they left to theirs. Teaching – not my forte. Feeling the familiar weight of guilt over that fact, I let sweet relief ease past it. I opened the routing envelope placed on my desk, and smiled when I saw the IRB-approved consent forms for one of my projects. Nodded when I received an email informing me that the other approval should come this week. It looks like I’m going to get started now – perhaps next year there will be much more to talk about.

Time will tell. But I have hope. And a shirt I like a lot.