Learning to relish appreciation

Gini taught me to see myself in a way I hadn't ever seen before

We were driving in Gini’s truck. I don’t remember what kind of truck it was, just that it was old and battered—the result of having been driven long and hard. Gini was in the driver’s seat, as always, when she reached over and put her right hand across my forward.

“What are you doing?” I protested.

“The sign said ‘Stop Ahead.’ I was just doing what it told me to do,” Gini replied, a smirk I would come to know well on her face.

When we returned home and I told her I was going to go change, her predictable response was, “What are you going to be when you’re done?”

Gini is the queen of bad puns, but her sense of humor goes deeper than that. She is quick-witted and always ready with a punch line, whether she’s leading a meeting of thousands at the Unitarian Universalist Association’s General Assembly or teaching a technology workshop for a few eager students. When we co-led workshops as part of our software training business, I often referred to myself as her straight man (i.e., comic foil), but then quickly clarified for the crowd that I was neither, sparking an eruption of laughter. That was usually my best line of the session. Gini, on the other hand, could take even the most boring subjects, Microsoft Project, for instance, and turn it into a comedy act that not only made the training experience enjoyable, but also one in which students learned and could apply the material as well. I never stopped admiring that.  

Gini presiding over a large meeting

After a few years in business together, we were offered a contract to conduct workshops at the International Association of Administrative Professionals (IAAP) conference. The training director asked us for a list of our available time slots. Because we had cleared our calendars for the conference, we indicated we were available for all the workshop slots. We had expected she’d fill two or three of them with the workshops we had proposed. Instead, she filled every slot and told us that they were all already booked as standing room only – 300 plus people per workshop. I felt terrified, and while Gini was a little overwhelmed, she was mostly ecstatic. “This will be great fun!” she exclaimed.

As this was our first appearance at IAAP, no one knew what to expect from us, but we quickly found that these professional admins loved the practical software tips and tricks we offered to help them do their jobs better, especially when delivered with humor and fun. We were an instant hit. Word spread quickly and people began trading their workshop tickets to get into our upcoming sessions. At the end of each session, a number of participants would rush forward to thank us and ask questions specific to their work environment.

By the end of the second session on that first day, my introverted self screamed for quiet. Eyeing an obscured alcove behind us, I snuck past our new fans and hid away there. I can still feel the deep breath I took as I closed my eyes and tried to re-energize my flagging spirit. “If I feel this drained after only two sessions, how will I survive two whole days?” I thought.  

My respite was fleeting though. It only took a few minutes for Gini to find me. “Come on,” she said. “What are you doing back here? Our fans are waiting!” she said with a grin as big as the capacious room. Begrudgingly, I left my refuge to interact with our new devotees and, from that point forward, never retreated from our fans again.

Gini enjoying a moment between training sessions.

As a result of this experience, and many more that followed, Gini taught me how to be a functional extrovert—to relish the moments when we’d arrive in a hotel lobby and be greeted by swarms of eager admins requesting autographs of our books about, of all things, Microsoft Office! As a training team, we developed a repartee that succeeded in teaching skills invaluable to the admins while endearing us to our audiences. It was a rare combination.

Gini taught me to trust my skills, to allow myself to be funny, and to experience what it’s like to be seen and appreciated for being the best at what I do.

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Asking the right questions is often more important than finding the answers