While checking my Fitbit stats this morning, I noticed an unusual spike in my heart rate on Wednesday afternoon. But instead of panicking, booking an appointment with a cardiologist, and going coffin shopping, I simply laughed out loud.
No, I wasn’t thumbing my nose at the Grim Reaper, as badass as that might be. Turns out there’s a perfectly logical explanation for this: the timing of my elevated heart rate corresponds perfectly with the presentation I was delivering to a virtual CheeseGov crowd. Which is kind of embarrassing, but what can I say? I hate public speaking of any kind. Even via Microsoft Teams.
As evidenced by 138 BPM at 1:18 p.m.
The weird thing is, I’m not bad at it. On the rare occasions when I’m forced to present something – ’cause believe you me, I will never volunteer – I do a decent enough job. People usually respond positively, as they did during yesterday’s Tech Talk (From Blank Page to Masterpiece: Unleash Your Inner Storyteller). I even received an A in my high school speech class. But gah, I hate being in the spotlight; I’m actually a pretty humble guy – I swear! – and prefer to let my written words do the talking while I crouch in the bushes and hide, my nerves through the roof. Even the days leading up to a presentation are no picnic, as it’s pretty much all I’m thinking about.
This really shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone (though it often does), as I’ve mentioned repeatedly that I’m an introvert. At best, I tolerate social situations; you might recall my Irish Goodbye when sneaking out of leaving TobacCo’s holiday party last year. Hell, I was practicing social distancing long before it became trendy in 2020. COVID stole my branding!
Today, I’m working from home in the solitude of my basement office, with nary a presentation on my docket, and my heart rate probably hasn’t topped 78 BPM.
That’s not a coincidence.
You know what else gets my heart beating like a mofo? Yard work. But at least that can be chalked up to actual physical labor instead of nerves.
We’ve been on a mission all summer to detangle, for lack of a better word, our backyard and repurpose it into our own little oasis. Much of the work has centered on the garden and raspberry orchard, but we have also transformed an overgrown patch of wild ginger and dead nettle on the side of the house into…well, this.
I also cleared out a bunch of vegetation around the shed. Much of it was my dreaded nemesis, poison ivy. Maybe next year we’ll actually get a chance to paint it and re-shingle the roof.
Funny story about that shed, by the way. Ol’ Dick was a school teacher, and one year, he had his students come over to the house and build it from scratch – ostensibly to teach them carpentry, but really, I think Dick just wanted a free shed. Gotta hand it to the guy, that’s a pretty ingenious way to get one! It’s old and not in great shape, but I can’t bear to tear it down.
Speaking of poison ivy, we initially swore we’d never resort to chemicals. “We can dig it up by hand!” I declared confidently. Well, we can – and we did – but the problem with poison ivy is, unless you manage to extract the entire taproot (which is much longer than you think), it just grows back again. Quickly. I’ve tried boiling water, but the results are the same. I swear, this stuff is taunting me.
Plus, no matter how carefully you dress for the task, the devil weed has an uncanny ability to infiltrate your protective gear. After about the third or fourth rash, I flip-flopped on my decision and decided, hey, maybe chemicals aren’t such a bad idea after all.
You know it’s bad when you’re buying calamine lotion by the case. I’m really tired of itching, guys.
So, I picked up some heavy-duty Ortho weed killer specially formulated for poison ivy, and lemme tell you, this shit works. You spray it on the leaves and within hours they begin to wither and die. The no-doubt-super-toxic glyphosate penetrates to the roots, essentially killing the entire plant from the inside out. After a few days, there’s no trace of the stuff. I wouldn’t even know where it had been if not for the pink flags of doom that now mark patches of bare dirt.
Admittedly not an ideal solution and I’m using it sparingly, just to gain control over what is a pretty extensive problem. And nowhere near the garden or fish pond, of course. Once I get the upper hand, I’ll be extra vigilant, and attack any new growth by hand the moment I spot it. I just need to get to the point where it’s manageable. Hopefully next year.
Do you enjoy public speaking? Is there a particular work-related task you dread?
Mark My Words 
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