During my career as a corporate rat, I spent a great deal of
time on the road presenting to clients, users’ groups, and professional
associations. As such, life was
embarrassment waiting to happen. I became cautious and superstitious to an
excessive degree. I learned to pack at least three pairs of
pantyhose per day on the road, as I could not be trusted to dress myself
successfully without tearing my stockings.
Even removing my watch and rings to avoid rips and runs was not a fail-safe solution. I once made an emergency U-turn on the way to
a client site; although I managed to spare my hose, I left my wedding rings on
the bed in my hotel room.
Over the years, I weathered my share of computers that
refused to boot, demos that did not perform as expected, and out-of-sequenced
PowerPoint slides. No matter how
seasoned I became at putting together a new presentation from an old one, there
was invariably one slide that still bore the name of the client from the last
presentation—an unforgiveable sin in the Fortune 100 world. I became adept at turning off the projector spontaneously
and resorting to a “chalk talk”—a seemingly impromptu discussion that was
merely a cover-up for something gone awry.
In thirteen years of dog-and-pony-shows, there is one day
that stands out in my mind above the rest.
There was a particularly prized client—one of the largest and most
prestigious hospitals in the country.
The sales executive assigned to this account had spent years cultivating
a relationship with their executive team, weathering the many turnovers and overcoming
a couple of set-in-their-ways stalwarts who could not imagine changing from their traditional vendors. Finally,
the client agreed to allow us come on site and demonstrate our full product
line to the many financial and clinical managers. We dubbed these massive events “demoramas” as
they cost the company literally tens of thousands of dollars to stage. I was to be the keynote speaker, kicking off
the event with a presentation of the company’s vision, making the connection
between our application of technology and the hospital’s need for longitudinal
functionality and clinical-financial integration.
To say this was a tough crowd is an understatement. They arrived with their “shields up,” trying
their best not to smile or concede any ground to our camp. But in the end we prevailed, showing them how
our approach was essential to the attainment of their strategic goals. We shook hands and planned the next
steps. The sales executive was
cautiously optimistic as he thanked our “corporate attack team,” continuing the
post mortem evaluation all the way
back to the airport, through ticketing, and even while we boarded the plane. Once on board, we scattered to our assigned
seats.
Exhausted, I let my body sink into the uncomfortable coach
seat. I rolled my neck and shoulders to
expel the tension, then crossed my legs absentmindedly. It was then I noticed the navy shoe on my
foot. It did not match the black and
white glen plaid suite I wore with the solid black silk blouse. I must have grabbed the blue instead of the
black; the two identical pair of shoes sat side by side in my closet. I shook my head, feeling the flush of
embarrassment creep up my neck to my face.
Looking down in shame, I was stunned to discover it was even worse than I initially suspected. There on my feet
were mismatched shoes—one black, one blue.
I glanced around the plane, certain that all the passengers were staring
at me, as if my shoe revelation had hit everyone simultaneously. Mortified, I crossed my feet at the ankles
and thrust them under my seat, causing the person behind me push back on the
carryon bag they had stowed beneath.
Then, reality set in. This wasn’t just a plane ride; it was the most
important sales day of the year. I
recalled how my day had begun—the working breakfast, meeting the clients, the
presentation in front of a packed Board Room.
How many places had I been? How
many people had I met? How many had
noticed the unfortunate woman with the mismatched shoes? How much had this faux pas undermined my credibility as the company’s industry
expert?
The next day at the office, I waited for the other shoe to
drop, as it were. No one called me on
the carpet for my indiscretion. The
client still seemed determined to move forward with a deal. But I was forced, lamentably, to sacrifice one of my
favorite pairs of shoes just to ensure that there would never be a repeat performance
of this particular embarrassment.
Tomorrow's blog: Life's Most Embarrassing Moments--In Blue
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