"I firmly believe that with the right footwear one can rule the world." —Bette Midler

I'm sitting in a hip coffee shop. It's in a section of town where students hang out, based on overheard snippets of conversation and seeing their clothing choices. It's set up like an old factory. Hardwood floors, open ceiling, hanging plants, and an old bar that runs halfway along one wall. It seems if I sit here long enough, the beverages will move from stimulant to anti-stimulant.
One of the young ladies clomps her way over to meet a friend. She moves without grace or elegance. I'm not sure if it's her or the shoes. The shoes must be fashionable, I think. I can't tell, but the rest of her looks fashionable, and no one but me seems to notice the clomping. Clomp, clomp, clomp to her friend's table. Clomp, clomp, clomp to the bathroom. Clomp, clomp, clomp to the counter and clomp, clomp, clomp all the way back.
When I was a young manager, back in the days before full business casual, I was busy enough that my lovely bride helped with my apparel decisions. Needless to say, I looked great when wearing something she picked. My standard attire of white or blue oxford, tan or blue chino, and loafers rarely elicited a compliment. Wearing a shirt that she picked out, however, would have strangers saying, ooh, I like the buttons, or some other thing that made my cheeks flush, causing me to blurt, "uh, my wife picked it!"
One of her visits to the department store yielded a new pair of shoes for me. They were what I would call, chunky. Black, square-toed, thicker rubber sole. Definitely fashion forward for most people, fashion way-in-the-future for this guy. I never hesitated wearing them, because by then my trainer had earned my trust.
On the way to work, and at work, I started getting compliments. They liked my shoes. I liked my shoes. I felt great.
Most of my reps worked in cubicles, some in offices. Part of my approach was MBWA. I walked here, I walked there, I listened, I answered questions, and made a general nuisance of myself. One day, while walking around, a rep said they had just been talking about me. Specifically, my shoes.
"Really?" I said, holding my foot up to admire the shiny black leather. "You like them too?"
"No," she said, "we hate them," and laughed.
After a beat she said, "we can't hear you coming!"
It seems that in my loafers I was, well, not graceful or elegant. I clomp, clomp, clomped around the office announcing my whereabouts to everyone on the floor. The poor dears must have reflexively prepped for a visit as I approached. Now in my fancy rubber-soled shoes, they had no warning. Boom! I was there in their little computer-rear-view mirror, listening. Taking notes. Judging.
The young lady at the coffee shop is up, heading back to the counter. I know this without looking up, and have empathy for my old team. Just a tinge. They got off lucky compared to the others subjected to my behaviors.
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