Brio, Bravado, and a Bra

Of course what you do matters, but how you do what you do matters, too. I want my life to count for something good. I care about the way my time is spent – the projects I take on, the people in my orbit, and the opportunities in front of me. It matters to me to do things well, with some polish. I hope others will be glad I was a part of things.
But sometimes I wonder if others’ confidence in me isn’t a little misplaced, or if perhaps they are woefully misinformed about my supposed abilities. For example, recently I was asked to be in charge of the kitchen at a week-long girls camp. Woo-boy. Me? Gulp. I mean, I like to cook. I’m decent at it. But, cook for all those people, three meals a day, for a week, with commercial equipment? Eeep. I dunno. That’s so…
…so…
…full of opportunities to…
… fail.
To fail in front of lots of people, and hungry people at that. I don’t like to fail, especially in public.
So, I said I needed to think about it, which I did. I said could I bring my husband-who-is-experienced-with-commercial-appliances, and they said I could. I said I would do it, and I have scarcely thought about anything else since. I am excited about the opportunity, but I am intimidated, too. Here’s what scares me:
–What if I can’t accommodate special diets without turning into a wretch? Special diets sometimes make me feel that way, with apologies to all those who must deal with them every day.
–What if somebody leaves the table hungry because I didn’t get enough food? If that happens I might die.
–What if I buy the right amount of food but my menus are too expensive and the camp directors hate me and lament the day I was born when events were set into motion that would eventually land me in their path? I think this one could really happen. I asked the former cook what the budget was and she said there isn’t any specific figure – she just kept costs as low as possible. Not cool, because I gotta be me. I know this about myself. I don’t do cheapest-possible-thing too well. I’m better at if-we-spend-just-a-little-more-it’ll-be-really-good. I’m on the high-maintenance end of the spending spectrum — I use cream. You understand the problem.
–Then of course there’s the whole what-I-cook versus what-they’ll-eat issue. I like to expose palates to new tastes, and I do not suffer the picky gladly. I am willing to set out a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread for pathetic uneducated whiners, but I reserve the right to sneer at them at my whim.
So, I’ve been obsessing just a little. I’ve been second-guessing my decision to take on the job, and I don’t like that, because if I am going to do something I know it is important to embrace it, to act with confidence. You’ve got to believe you can do what you are going to do. It’s like making an omelet – if you don’t think you can do it, you can’t do it. And the most disconcerting thing in all of this angst is that I have been totally blaming my underwear.
It’s true. See, when one of the directors rang my cell phone the other afternoon to find out my decision, I wasn’t really myself when I answered him. I didn’t tell him any of this then, but I’m telling you now because it’s just between us, right?
The thing is, I had been bra shopping. Even as we spoke I was standing in the third store of the day clutching a handful of those little plastic hangers with dangling bits of lace and spandex, headed for yet another changing room. And even as I reversed course to get near the exit for better phone reception, my mind remained pre-occupied with body parts one doesn’t mention to a male camp director.
Also, I was trying to determine the veracity of the guarantee offered by the first store of the day – that their bras are life-changing. Think of that – they posit that lives are changed by their bras, and if yours is not, I suppose you can get your money back. But how do you know if it is true?
At the moment I was saying that, yes, I would attempt to feed a bunch of campers, counselors, and teachers for a week next August, I was wearing the bra I bought from the life-changing bra store. It is by far the most expensive piece of underwear I have ever owned, although if it is indeed life-changing then it is a bargain. It is undoubtedly a marvel of design, even of engineering, and, how can I say this? It makes things appear to be true that were once true but aren’t exactly true anymore. Add that to the life-changing assertion and it almost seems imbued with a kind of magic. As I spoke on the phone, I felt emboldened, even liftedto a higher level of confidence, one that probably wasn’t entirely my own.
So, I agreed to hours of menu-planning and ingredient-sourcing and a week of hauling great pots around and hoping everything gets done on time and holding adolescent girls’ gazes with my steely eye and daring them to refuse my carefully prepared food. I agreed to subject myself to nightmares about forgetting to shop and a dining room full of finicky eaters and angry camp directors waving calculators in my face. I agreed to live with a certain amount of worry for the next six months that I’m not up to the job and they really should have gotten somebody else.
I know it is necessary for me to leave these doubts behind before I get to camp. I know I have to summon up my faith in my ability to do a good job. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, though – when I walk into that kitchen I’ll be wearing the bra.

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