’Til We Meet Again

This month is the 2,053rd anniversary of the death of Julius Caesar, who pronounced himself dictator for life before running the idea past the Roman Senate. On his way to a meeting, he was met by a group of senators who, wishing to express their unhappiness with his vocational aspirations, stabbed him to death. Moral of the story: Beware of meetings.

Not long ago, I counted up how many meetings I’ve attended since I began working 30 years ago. Some people keep careful records of their meetings so they can refer back to them at a later date. I try to forget my meetings as soon as they’re done. In 30 years, I’ve never regretted not keeping notes at a meeting. Lacking documentation, therefore, I could only make an estimate of my total. Four meetings a week times 50 weeks a year (I don’t schedule meetings for the week after Christmas or the week I take off each summer to go camping) times 30 years equals 6,000 meetings. That doesn’t include all of the times someone invited me to lunch with the sneaky intent of turning it into a meeting.

As Julius Caesar discovered, the journey to the meetings can be as unpleasant as the meetings themselves. I once flew 2,200 miles, and then drove another 150 miles, to attend a one-hour meeting that could just as easily have been conducted over the telephone. I was away from home for three days and got stuck overnight at O’Hare Airport, where a lady sneezed on me and passed me her cold.

The best meeting I ever attended was one in which I was fired. The man in charge did it quickly and kindly, and left me feeling I was better off unemployed. After he fired me, the man shook my hand and wished me luck. I commended him for his brisk but friendly manner, and we’ve remained good friends. It was an ideal meeting—short and to the point.

There is a man in my church who loves meetings. He gladly serves on any committee or board that will have him. His days are a string of meetings, one after the other, where he takes careful notes that he reads at night before he goes to bed, reliving the glory. He not only attends his meetings; if I ask, he attends meetings in my stead.

“How did my meeting go?” I ask.

“It was a great meeting,” he says. “It’s a shame you had to miss it.”

I nod my head in agreement, feigning regret. “It couldn’t be helped,” I say, my voice catching.

There are some people who meet well, and some who don’t.


Visit Philip Gulley's personal website here.