On the weekend I spent an hour and a half talking to man at a kid’s birthday party. Except for the odd interruption from our children, we talked non-stop.
Well, actually, he talked non-stop. He only paused when I asked questions. He told me all about his job, the ins and outs of his industry, his networking functions, his education. Were I called to, I’m pretty sure I could now provide a comprehensive overview of his employment history.
By comparison, he wanted to know one thing about me: did I want him to buy me a coffee?
It felt like I was in some 1950s flashback where women are expected to listen, smile, and sometimes put out to men, in exchange for men buying them stuff. My payment for facilitating this man’s 90-minute monologue was a soy latte.
That’s a pretty crappy hourly rate. Especially when you add the insulting implication that I was so uninteresting and unimportant, he didn’t want to know a single thing about me – other than my coffee preference.