About rising to personal challenges.

It’s 1966; the year miniskirts come into fashion. Johnson is President, the U.S. is stepping up military strength in Viet Nam and its bombing in the North, race riots occur in areas of Chicago, Cleveland, and other cities. Woody Allen, actor and filmmaker, releases the movie What’s UP, Tiger Lily, a Japanese Spy film, Johns Hopkins University Hospital performs two sex-change operations, the Supreme Court rules that a person accused of a crime must be informed of his constitutional rights—including the right to remain silent—before being questioned, Jacqueline Susann publishes Valley of the Dolls, and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy enjoys a cultish popularity in the U.S.

And I? I’m thirteen, and my friend Janet and I have decided to enroll in charm school at an exclusive department store in downtown Nashville, Tennessee, where I grew up. It seems harmless enough, after all my big sister had done it, and she got to wear make up and new clothes and got lots of attention.

But nobody told us about that first day, when, after they’ve sucked you in with a fancy little cosmetics kit and a few basic instructions—they expect you to walk down the runway (alone) in front of everybody, do a model’s turn, (gracefully, and alone) in front of everybody, and introduce yourself, giving some background including hobbies and goals (alone, and in front of everybody.) And all of this was to take place after lunch.

After a quick and unanimous agreement, Janet and I packed up our kits and hightailed it to the Public Library down the street, frantically hiding behind a pile of books. I don’t remember much about which books they were in particular, only that on that day I learned that my last name is derived from a French word meaning “horse groom.” What it came down to was, I just couldn’t handle the full attention of a large crowd. The very thought made my palms cold and sweaty, my heart race, my stomach twist, my throat close. Heck—I had trouble figuring out what to say to a stranger on the phone. Needless to say, Janet and I never returned to charm school, that day, or ever.

Since then I’ve put myself through many such challenges knowing full well I could “trip up,” and admittedly there have been times that I have, such as the time in the late seventies that I spoke to the rising class of dental assistants at their capping ceremony, my stomach so tied in knots and my voice trembling so badly I could barely get through it. I had been asked by the department head to speak because I had graduated from the course the previous year with honors, but that background didn’t help me keep my cool in front of a large crowd. While I felt I had humiliated myself, I didn’t pass up another opportunity to speak a year or so later, elated when I didn’t totally botch it. Each time it became a little easier, although I will never feel completely comfortable speaking in front of a crowd.

At least I’ve learned to “push the envelope” for myself just a little once in awhile. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, and what comes easy for some certainly doesn’t for everyone. A big challenge for one person may be to fly on a plane across the ocean to take part in a large business meeting, while for another the real challenge might be in just leaving their house. I respect anyone who rises to his or her personal challenge.

Through the years I’ve gotten lots of chuckles from my fleeting experience with charm school, but I’ve also wondered what it would have been like if I’d stayed that day. Sure, I probably would have tripped on my own feet or spouted nonsense, or both, but if I’d stuck it out, I probably would have learned how to be a little more self-assured in front of others at an earlier age. Sure, it’s easier to turn down a challenge and stay safe, but we miss something by doing that—a chance to expand our capabilities—a chance for self-growth. And if we mess up--so what? The world goes on around us, we get up and try again.