Requiem For a Business Luncheon

You enter the hotel, your heels already rubbing the back of your foot raw and pinching your toes uncomfortably. You’re dressed about 87% more professionally than you normally would be, because today is a special (in this case, special meaning “sounded like a good thing to commit to at the time but now I don’t have time for this”) occasion: You have a business luncheon to attend.

You pick up your name tag at the registration booth quickly and quietly, doing your best to avoid the group of people making small talk in the foyer.

Upon entering the conference room, you immediately begin scouting for a table of people who look unlikely to insist on feeble attempts at networking and instead let you and your fellow table mates sit in mildly uncomfortable silence while you ponder how soon is too soon to begin picking at your wilting mixed greens salad.

You spy a table of eight that has only four occupants. There is a middle-aged man who exudes an aura of total defeat, seated next to a college-aged woman who looks about as socially anxious as you feel and, with a buffer seat between them and the man, two women with talon-like manicures who seem to be from the same company, talking to each other intermittently while scrolling through their Instagrams.

These are your people. You power walk to the table, and sit across from the man, whose name tag identifies him as Randy. As you are placing your napkin on your lap and fidgeting with your silverware, you make eye contact with Randy. In his eyes, you can see the reflection of one too many rubbery chicken and lukewarm potatoes luncheon meals staring back at you. His eyes are hollow, haunted. The young woman next to him, who does not have a name tag and is presumably his intern, glances at you nervously, perhaps afraid you will try to ask her about her future career aspirations.

Everything is going reasonably well until Jessica decides to join your table. Jessica is Very Excited To Be Here and Really Looking Forward to Making Professional Connections. She insists on asking everyone “who they are with” even though this is information she could obtain by glancing at their name tags, and everyone’s nearly identical job duties sound “really fascinating.” Sure, Jessica. You feel your body shifting in its seat, straining to move as far as possible from her obnoxious eagerness to meet new people and you grab a second stale bread roll and begin aggressively chewing it in an effort to indicate that, like a reality TV show contestant, you’re not here to make friends.

The meal is being served as the luncheon organizer steps up to the podium and begins welcoming the attendees in the least welcoming voice imaginable. You look down at the plate in front of you. To no one’s surprise, today’s menu consists of rubbery chicken and lukewarm potatoes. You glance at Randy, wondering if this is what will finally break him once and for all, but he simply begins cutting into his chicken with dead eyes and practiced motions.

About the time the keynote speaker takes the podium, you begin to wonder if anyone has ever considered serving booze at these luncheons. Or if there is a profession where booze is always served at these luncheons, and how easily you could move to said profession. Next to you, Jessica is twisted in her seat so she has eyes on the speaker and his poorly formatted PowerPoint. You remain facing away, staring at the condensation that’s formed on your water glass. Ideally, you are giving off the impression that you are listening intently, carefully processing all that’s being said, but more likely you just look like you’re mad about being here. While you’re not rude enough to be blatantly perusing Facebook during this dull, dull time, you are developing a certain grudging respect for those around you who are.

A small amount of laughter at one of the speaker’s bad jokes breaks out in the room. You force your face muscles to form something that you hope resembles a smile. Finally, it ends. You want to jump from your seat and sprint out of the hotel, but you force yourself to stand at a normal speed and, using all of your remaining willpower, walk briskly to the door.

Factoring in travel time, the luncheon is one of the longest lunch breaks you’ve ever taken, though it’s really no break at all, but rather an hour-and-a-half-long session of slow death by boredom. Still, as you inhale sweet, fresh oxygen into lungs that have begun adapting to the stale conference room air, you find yourself newly appreciative of your freedom. And tomorrow you can wear jeans to work again. You smile to yourself. It’s always good to have something to wake up for in the morning.