You are wearing a green shirt.
You have eight people around you wearing purple shirts.
You are sharing a meal.
"blah blah blah blah... Computers.... Weather....blah blah blah"
"Yeah, weather, blah blah blah"
The conversation stops. Cutlery clanks on plates. Heads whip around to look at you, awaiting your reaction.
You think several thoughts at once, including noble ones like:
"Quiet green-shirt-wearers rarely make history"
"Be the change you want to see in the world"
Less noble ones, like:
"Not again. I was just sitting here, having lunch, thinking about clever things to say about the weather."
"Do we have to talk about my shirt color at Every. Single. Meal?"
Then nerve-wracking ones, like:
"Because I wear a green shirt, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, 'She doesn't have what it takes'; They will say, 'Green shirts don't have what it takes'"
Your response today, right now, matters, because they all do. Whether you want to or not, you must represent all green shirt wearers in a sea of purple. You're probably wearing the only green shirt they've ever seen, and at this rate, probably the last.
This is what it feels like to be me.
Of course, being me, deeply lacking in verbal acumen, things usually go something like this: