Faking it

Perverts. I'm not writing about that kind of faking it.

I'm referring to the way I felt on Monday and Tuesday, when I dressed up in a nice business suit (actually two different suits, one for each day) and drove to a high-dollar hotel and conference center for an investor conference.

I do this periodically, in different cities, different hotel/conference centers and with different investment themes (although constantly rotating through the same three suits). In case you're wondering, I attend these conferences as part of my job as a financial journalist, not just for fun.

But no matter where it is or which suit I'm wearing, I always get the distinct sense that I am entirely out of place and wonder how long it will take for someone else to notice. I keep expecting someone to walk up and say, "Excuse me. Who are you and why are you here?"

Of course they don't do that, partly because I'm in a suit like the rest of them and partly because I'm wearing the same style name tag from the same conference registration table as the rest of them.

I just can't shake the sense that I'm faking it --- surrounded by white guys in suits who seem genuinely fascinated by the particular investment theme, and perhaps even convinced that their participation in this investment world serves some greater good in society.

I share neither sentiment, beyond a general intellectual curiosity that prevents me from being bored to the verge of suicide, and of course the understanding that my livelihood requires me to pay close attention to the subject matter at hand and talk with as many of these suits as possible. Actually, that general curiosity usually manages to make my mildly interested in the topic.

We eat dainty pastries with sliced up melon and berries for breakfast and make polite, mindless conversation over lunch. At the end of it all, we're invited to "network" over cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

Ugh. I'm usually too exhausted by this point to exercise any of my networking abilities, which are in rather short supply even at full strength.

Most likely, these feelings are the result of my quasi-blue collar upbringing. I never knew anyone wealthy growing up. I certainly didn't know any investment bankers or CEOs. And call me stereotypical, but I'm pretty sure most of the investment bankers and CEOs I mingled among earlier this week would have turned their noses pretty high if they walked past the kinds of people I spent my time with as a child and teenager.

I just can't seem to feel at home in this crowd. Beyond the stuck-up snob stereotype, I've got no good reason to dislike them. They generally come across as friendly and accommodating, even the CEOs when I'm asking them questions they would rather not answer.

I guess I just prefer 'salt of the earth,' working class personalities over 'money makes the world go round' attitudes. And I worry a little that if I spend too much time around the latter type then I'll lose my ability to relate to the former.

Ah well, ultimately I do think people are people, and we're not all that different deep down --- in our desires, hopes, needs and so on. Thus, I get by, even when forced to hang out with filthy rich old white guys.

That concludes today's session of self-psychoanalysis. I owe myself $100.