trust falls. As I walk into the classroom, the first thing that strikes me is the demographic of the students. Because it’s a fairly new online startup, which promotes principles like community building and knowledge sharing, I expected a bunch of hipsters with big egos. Instead, I’m greeted by a scattering of housewives, middle-aged businessmen, studious-looking young women, and a pink-haired girl who looks like she just fell out of an Urban Outfitters catalogue, all armed with legal pads and pens poised for note taking. I grab a cookie and take a seat. Matt’s holding this information session himself, and as he starts his introduction, I completely miss what he’s saying as the person next to me thrusts the sign-in sheet into my lap. The sheet asks for name and email address, but there’s also a box that asks the million-dollar question: what class are you teaching? I haven’t thought this through very well (maybe I’m the hipster with the big ego). I start to panic because I feel like I’m taking too long with the sign-in sheet, and the Urban Outfitters model just wants me to get on with it, and that’s when it hits me—I feel like I have absolutely no skills that are worth teaching, let alone worth asking someone to pay me to teach. It’s probably because I’ve spent too much time on Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest, instead of getting rid of my TV, jogging at 6 a.m., and attending classes at The Skillery. That’s okay, I tell myself. I’ll just offer my class for free. And thanks to a few years spent as a secretary at a local university, I own the bullshit title of being a Microsoft Office Certified Specialist, so I hurriedly scribble down “Introduction to Excel.” I could share my knowledge of spectacular spreadsheets with a housewife or small business owner who might find that knowledge really valuable. Just for good measure, I throw a slash in there and write “Intro to Photoshop.” I’ve made more than a few flyers for terrible Murfreesboro bands in my day, so why not? As the class gets into full swing, Matt asks the room to throw out suggestions for classes they want to teach. To get the ball rolling, he writes down “Spreadsheets” on the whiteboard, and for a moment my ego soars. Maybe I really do have a skill worth teaching! But then he jokes
ANY MOMENT, I EXPECT TO WALK AROUND A CORNER AND SEE GUYS IN BLACK TURTLENECKS DOING TRUST FALLS.
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