John Y’s Musings from the Middle: Machismo & Business Jargon

Yeah, c’mon. Don’t look confused. You know exactly what I’m talking about. And, yeah, I would be embarrassed too. In fact, I admit that I am right now.

Middle aged guys in business no longer play extreme sports or get into bar fights or even raise their voice in a combative way outside the home, the final domain of the toothless tiger. Remember the Will Ferrell SNL skit, “You should respect me because I drive a Dodge Stratus!”? That’s the mentality I’m getting at with the title above.

We are driving late today in the minivan and my teenage daughter and her friend are in the backseat and I get a business call I “have to take.”

It goes on and on and I’m thinking to myself, “I hope my daughter is listening to this. I’m on my game and sounding pretty darned impressive right now. Maybe she’ll finally appreciate how tough my conference calls and business meetings and PowerPoint presentations really are.”

And as an added bonus her friend was listening too and would surely reinforce this belief, I was sure, by later commenting to my daughter when I wasn’t around, “Wow, Maggie, did you hear all those acronyms you father was using? He must be really smart and important. I didn’t understand most of what he was saying. He’s a lot more impressive my other friends’ dads. You are so lucky.” (Or words to that affect)

As the call was winding up, I kicked it up a notch. Threw in some gratuitous “ROI” comment and a then long string of business acronyms that darned near made it sound like I was speaking an entirely foreign language that was so complicated it is made up entirely of abbreviations. I looked for an opening for the word “synergy” but had to settle for “coop-ition” which I kinda made up since I was already on a roll.

And then I calmly and smoothly hung up the phone and slipped it in to my cowboy-like holster. All the while knowing the ‘lil ladies in the backseat had just witnessed that there was a new sheriff in town.

I paused for a moment, and slowly swerved around to “apologize” for my important business call and, I admit it, see if they had any questions.

Both of them had put in their earphones and were listening to their iPods totally oblivious to the machismo heroics that had just occurred in the front seat of the minivan. That my wife was driving for me.

“All finished?” my wife asked with the tone I remembered hearing the first time my mom told me I was wearing “big boy pants.”

I felt like I should say “I’m playing cowboy.” But didn’t have the guts to admit it.