You didn’t ask

I’m basking in the uplifting energy of the National Women Airforce Service Pilots WWII Museum in Sweetwater, Texas.  It’s the homecoming weekend for the Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASP.  This weekend’s homecoming celebrates the 80th anniversary of the WASP program.

Created during World War II, WASP tested and ferried aircraft, towed gunnery targets, transported military equipment and trained other pilots which freed up male pilots for combat roles. Despite the challenges and sacrifices these women made, the WASP and its members had no military standing until 1977.

The idea for a National WASP WWII Museum began in 2002. The grand opening for the museum was held in 2005, 62 years to the day that the first class of WASP graduated.

As a female military pilot, trodding on the very land where these amazing pioneers began their selfless service holds special meaning.

But there’s another reason why being here has special meaning.  Last night, I emceed the homecoming dinner for more than 350 people.

Since retiring from the Air Force, I’ve been trying to fly into my “second act.” After stepping into the red circle of a TEDx stage, I assumed I had exchanged my Colonel rank for the role of “speaker.” As I do keynotes, workshops, panel moderation and emcee work, I’ve found that I love the thrill of emceeing the most. 

I love the necessity of improvising to stall as behind-the-scenes pieces come together. 

I love the requirement to think on your feet when things go sideways.

I love the trust the event planner relinquishes to me when I have to go off script to bridge any awkwardness or drops in the enthusiasm that might arise.

I love the fun of having people feel the need to tell me this is the first time they’ve had brisket.

It’s the unpredictability and the energy management that I love.

Now, with the dinner behind me, I have the chance to mill around and rub elbows with amazing women — both those who blazed a path for me and those who are also beneficiaries of the blazing. 

The museum has set up tables for authors to sign books and I stumble on table signage with a photo of my face and the cover of my book. According to the sign, I’ll be there at that table in a few hours. Because I see myself as a speaker who has a book instead of an author who speaks, I would rather mill around and soak in the positive energy all day.

So I take advantage of the time I have to mingle and come into contact with a beacon of positivity. A fireball in a petite frame, this woman radiates adventure and a genuine interest in the person in front of her. I am lucky enough to land in front of her. 

Maybe because I spent so much time in front of the microphone at the dinner last night or maybe because of my brazen desire to connect with this woman, I hone in on a small microphone she has clipped to her bag. She hands me the microphone (or maybe I grabbed it … the security camera footage has yet to be pulled) and together we begin ambush interviews of passersby.

Through the ambushing, I learn this phenom’s name is Abingdon. Together we banter with unsuspecting patrons, converting them into guests on the newly-formed Abingdon and Mo Show. Abingdon pulls a soft-sided case from her bag and hands it to one of our guests, asking them to open it while she records on her camera and I provide unrelated jibber jabber.

The unzipped soft-sided case reveals an array of sturdy, sparkling, feminine watches.

Suddenly the barker becomes the customer as I touch the watches, holding in my hand cool fly-boy-style watches made to fit the wrists of cool fly girls.

It turns out that Abingdon owns a watch company (The Abingdon Co.), making watches specifically for female adventurers. She’s also a private pilot who has flown more types of aircraft than I even knew existed. 

Soon our short flight together is over and we part ways. I walk away from the memorable experience carrying her potent energy in my soul and her website on my browser.

Several hours later, I sit at the book-signing table when Abingdon and her friend come to the table. Just to reaffirm how badass this woman is, I should tell you her friend is Antonina Shevchenko, a UFC fighter and another chick pilot.

“You didn’t tell me you wrote a book,” says Abingdon, holding up my book as proof that I did in fact write one.

With smart-assery as my native tongue, I reply, “Well, you didn’t ask.”

“Well, you didn’t ask if I made watches, but you sure as heck know that I do.”

Damn.  Watch drop.  Book drop.  All the things dropped.

She was right (well, she still is).

As I humbly tried to toe the line between self-promotion and humility, I ended up in obscurity.

Abingdon was never cocky about the way she introduced her business.  It wasn’t her opening salvo, but she didn’t let me walk away without knowing what she did.

I’m a big believer in putting your thoughts and energy into the universe.  Call it the law of attraction, call it manifestation, call it The Secret (you get a book and you get a book and you get a book). Whatever you call it, the sentiment is the same.

Advocate for your dreams.

Set your specific intention.

Be clear about what you stand for.

The WASP had a passion for flying and serving their country, the very country that took 34 years to recognize them appropriately.

No one asked if they flew, but we sure as heck know that they did.