Is your birthday suit ready for summer?

“Just Imagine Everyone Is Naked,” She Said.

The stupid class that changed my life

You slowly open your eyes and let them adjust to the light. The fuzzy faces look vaguely familiar, but as you focus in you notice everyone is naked and every eye is on you… “Where am I?” you wonder. “Is this a fetish club, a Mormon wedding ceremony, or a European spa?”

You look down and see you’re holding note cards.

No. It’s Speech Class 101.

Everyone in my college speech class hated making speeches but they especially hated that class. We were young and shy about sharing our voices with the world (or the nine other people in the room). But we quickly began to bond once we found a common enemy — the teacher.

She was young, too — just a few years older than most of us. We learned a lot from her though–how much it cost her to get highlights in hair, the best and worst nail salons in town, and the reasons her husband was a loser.

We were the cornered audience tied to chairs while she told us the stories none of her friends (if she had any) or family had the patience to listen to. And she got paid for it.

“I could take her job!” we’d whisper to each other.

When we nodded off in boredom, she’d throw a stack of books on the floor. “That!” She said. “Is called an attention-getting tactic. Write it down in your notes.”

We tried to look busy as we scribbled stick figures in our notebooks.

Once she became bored with her own stories, she’d pack up her things and leave — often an hour before the end of class time.

Then it came time for our speeches.

“Don’t forget to use at least one power pose!” she’d remind us. She raised her eyebrows as she showed us photos in the textbook–the fist under the chin, the steepled fingers, the leaning back pose with hands behind your head, the arms crossed across the chest.

We rolled our eyes. Those guys in the book look like stuff-shirted buffoons.

“Make motions as you talk. Walk around. Always use note cards…” She threw her tips at us. Never end a speech early or late. You have 5 minutes–use them, don’t waste my time. It’s five points off for every minute over or under.”

If you didn’t use her pointers, points would fly off your grade faster than a mosquito flies away from a rabid bat. And she’d slash a few points each time you said, “um” — just for good measure.

One math major bravely raised his hand to question her: “So, technically we could get negative points for giving a speech?”

“I guess so,” she laughed.

“Certifiably insane,” he mouthed to us behind his open textbook.

It was all a joke to us until one day. We woke up long enough to hear: “And if you fail, don’t worry! I’ll just see you again in the fall!” That comment was the heat we needed under our asses to sit up and take notice.

She was right. There weren’t nearly enough speech teachers in this small junior college. And we’d do anything [legal] to make her happy and get out of this circle of Dante’s hell.

The students began taking her shots of wisdom literally and gave us the highlight reel as they got their grades back.

One student paced up in front of the class like an anxious caged and wounded lion. She likes that, he told us.

Another tried throwing his hands up in the air, gesticulating with odd jerks like Pinocchio on strings. She gave me points for movement.

Another student ended her speech mid-sentence but hit the 5-minute mark exactly. No points off for me! she boasted.

Another student stalled out saying uh and um as he saw the teacher making repeated x’s on his scorecard. He received his grade with a lowered head and we later heard he dropped the course.

Then, finally, it was my turn.

I got up on the slaughter block and tentatively began: “Hello, umm.” …My best-laid plans were failing me fast. My grades were soon to follow.

“Don’t be nervous!” The teacher whispered loudly as she picked up a notepad to dock as many points as she could. “Just picture everyone sitting out there with no clothes on. You’ll feel better.”

Far from relieving my fears, this scene just became my worst nightmare…

It was a fully lit room. Can you imagine panning the crowd to see that no one is wearing any clothes?

I swallowed hard. Why am I the only one up here with clothes on? Did I miss a memo? My casual sweatshirt and jeans just became overkill. Should I take my clothes off too so I don’t stick out like a sore thumb?

It’s like walking into the doctor’s office when you’re not sure if this is going to be one of those checkups where you’re supposed to completely undress. You certainly don’t want to be a prude, but at the same time, you don’t want to take it too far.

Leave the underwear on or off? Should you take your socks off, too? Or is that too much? Ahh, you’re just checking my ears and lungs, sorry I got naked and made this weird.

Also, why would a room full of naked people be looking at just me? I wondered. That’s pretty intense. Are they expecting a strip tease while I give my five-minute speech on why I think the chicken crossed the road? Did I unknowingly surprise an orgy and they are waiting for me to leave to continue? Do a bunch of naked people really want to hear about the time I went home to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving? Or, should I throw away my note cards, and pick a more relevant topic…

How long is one supposed to spend on this creative thinking exercise, and how detailed are you supposed to go? I’m not great at imagining the unknown… by the time I finish wondering if someone has a six-pack or a mole under their shirt, I could take home a “-13” for a grade.

How does the audience feel about you picturing them without clothes? Do you need everyone to sign a waiver of consent?

I cautiously raised my eyes to the crowd, afraid of what I might see. But it was just nine people I already knew (minus the one who dropped the class), and they still had clothes on. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, I manned up to the task and took my classmates’ advice.

I gesticulated like my morning espresso had been laced with crack, paced the floor like a tiger waiting for a schoolchild to fall in his cage, and read off my notecards with the passion of Churchill and the hubris of Trump.

I ended at 5 minutes and 3 seconds. Overall, the teacher labeled it a success.

Somehow, I made it through that speech class.

At the end of the semester, I noticed my teacher gave me a B in the class instead of an A. So, I pulled out everything I had learned in speech class to date: I steepled my fingers, went up to my teacher, and told her this grade was unacceptable with no ifs, buts, or ums.

She bumped my grade up a letter.

Speech 101 junior college course was perhaps the dumbest class I ever took, but it changed my life.

Now, when I give a speech I gesticulate with my hands. Why do you use your hands like that? People ask me. Are you Italian?

“No, just using some effective movements to drive my points home.”

Was your cliffhanger ending intentional? They ask.

“Just trying keep things punctual,” I reply.

“I noticed you didn’t use a visual presentation,” they comment.

I tap my trusty lined note cards. “These are all I need,” I say as I put them away in my back pocket.

Surprisingly the real-life experiences I had in this class also helped me help others — especially in the online dating scene.

“Send me a pic, naked.” Guys would say.

I’d smile benevolently behind my computer screen and shake my head. Ah, yes. That classic trick to calm the nerves my teacher talked about. This guy must have anxiety talking to girls.

“That approach is outdated,” I’d helpfully type back.

“I have experience and know a better way to calm your nerves,” I’d allay their fears.

“Just strike a strong position, steeple your fingers, then give it your best shot,” I’d advise.

“…Oh, and whatever you do, don’t say um.”

The student has become the teacher.

Thanks to Doctor Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier) for giving my words some CPR.