Post landing, a late arrival and another wonderful hotel night's sleep -- my gratuitous advice to you: avoid travel whenever possible -- I ironed the white dress shirt before yanking on black suit pants. On today's docket: a day-long financial education session for a Fortune 1000 company and a red-eye return to beautiful Findlay, Ohio. The training session, like most, called for business casual attire, but I preferred a suit and tie. While over dressing might just be a hangover from when twenty-three year old me led sessions for hundreds of people -- and wanted to look older/more professional -- participants expect a certain level of decorum from the presenter. Even when someone like me wears them, a suit and tie still manage to somehow communicate professionalism.
Getting everything in proper position, I discovered a slight problem with the consultant wear: the trouser's zipper had broken. Yanking off the pants, I attempted to reposition the zipper into prime "zipping" position as red alarm clock digits clicked toward the witching hour. The broken dress pants were my only pair: if they couldn't be repaired, I'd be forced to yank on the blue jeans. Casual attire for sure, but even the most laid-back businesses tended to frown upon blue jeans. Wearing them, in fact, might be worse than leaving the front door open during the entire session. Five frustrating minutes spent finagling the zipper into place without any luck reminded me of a similar wardrobe malfunction many moon ago.
Facilitating a client session outside Atlanta, I squatted to allocate shares within the ESOP wheel drawn on the flip-chart paper laying across the concrete lunch-room floor and heard fabric tear. Wondering about the extent of the damage -- the rip occurred somewhere in the nether regions of the pants -- but unwilling to perform an inspection in front of twenty session participants, I finished the demonstration, made some perfunctory comments and sent the class on a break. While it's always important to put on an entertaining performance and keep people interested in the session, the unscheduled peep show seemed to venture slightly beyond entertaining.
Locking the bathroom stall door, I appraised the damage: a half-inch in diameter rip in the crotch of the gray suit pants. Not too horrible and, given the location, unless someone laid on the floor and stared straight into the male reproductive region, they would be unable to see the danger zone. Wanting to avoid even the possibility of a mid-session underwear exposure and, more importantly, stop my over-active mind from thinking about it, I borrowed a safety pin. A couple twists and a click sealed the fabric chasm for the remainder of the event. What's safely hidden behind the safety pin, stays safely hidden, right?
Finishing the day without additional incidents, I forgot about the pants problem and drove straight into one of the most unfortunate things about Atlanta: the genius who laid out the highways decided to make I-75 and I-85 -- the city's two major interstates -- merge into one road near downtown. Everyone who travels through Atlanta understands the implications of that decision: a major traffic snafu almost 24/7.
Crawling through the interstate parking lot caused me to arrive at gigantic Hartsfield airport with barely an hour to spare. Dropping off the rental car, I zipped through security and grabbed the shoulder bag and box of training materials on the opposite side of the x-ray machine. Carrying both while hustling toward the escalator, rumbling legs dislodged the safety pin and it sprang open. Still stuck in the fabric, its sharp point stabbed my defenseless thigh on every other step:
Stride one, ouch.
Stride two, ok.
Stride three, ouch again!
Stride four, ok, maybe I'm all right.
Stride five, Ouch! Dammit!
Repeat for forty-seven steps or until thigh tenderized.
Unable to correct the situation due to both hands being occupied and time constraints -- twenty-five minutes remained until departure -- I implemented the Streetsboro version of Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks; wild leg gyrations failed to end the prickly pain. Jumping on the inter-concourse tram, I leaned against the wall. Abandoning any semblance of public decorum, I dropped the box and shoulder bag, bent over, reached between my legs -- sometimes pain overpowers embarrassment -- and fixed the infernal torture device, giving my reddened, pock-marked thigh some much-needed relief.
With twenty minutes until departure, the tram's doors slid open. Hoisting the suit bag over a shoulder, I bent to grab the materials box and the inevitable occurred: the pin popped open as I stood. This time, however, it redirected the assault: the thigh remained safe, but not the biological bundle that when kicked or kneed during a cage brawls leads to an immediate referee stoppage. Unable to fix the situation and unwilling to miss another flight, I raced onto the escalator, attempting to ignore repeated stabs to the family jewels. Unfortunate travelers stepped onto the moving stairs behind me; I dared not glance backwards, worried about what kind of expanding black hole they saw in my nether regions while gazing upward.
At the top of the escalator, I hopped, skipped and jumped down the D concourse, trying, but mostly failing, to avoid a self-generated vasectomy. Arriving at the gate with fifteen minutes to spare, I breathed a sigh of relief: I'd made it on time, would board the plane and be able fix the prickly issue from the relative safety of my seat. My true fate, of course, had already been written in red letters across the gate's electronic departure/arrival board: DELAYED. The flight wouldn't leave for another hour. That's right: I could have stopped, removed the hideous torture device -- avoiding every stab -- changed clothes and still arrived at the gate with forty-five minutes to spare. Tip-toeing into the restroom's handicapped stall, I yanked out the misnamed instrument -- nothing about it had been "safe" -- removed the suit pants (the hole had almost tripled in size) and slipped into some jeans.
To resolve this morning's wardrobe malfunction, I'd need three or four safety pins to close the gaping zipper hole, not one. The prospect of all those daggers poised to strike such a sensitive area at any moment during an entire day made the decision: I pulled on the blue jeans. Thankfully, I'd worn the relatively "nice" pair last night rather than the super-comfortable hole-riddled ones (it's the same pair you have and love and would wear just about everywhere if you could). Tucking the crisp, ironed shirt into the jeans, I tightened both belt and yellow striped tie and pulled on the three-button, black suit jacket to complete the Dr. Seuss-like ensemble.
Strolling into the company's facility, I reminded myself of an important fact: presenters create the meeting tone. If you act like you know what you're doing, people tend to believe you're competent (even if it's completely untrue). In similar fashion, no one knows your regular meeting attire. If you act like blue jeans, a suit jacket and a tie are "normal", most people will not question it. If, however, you draw attention to the woeful, mismatched outfit or apologize for sporting LOSER haute couture, people will notice and may think less of you. Humans tend to be pack animals and follow the expectations the "leader" sets.
So, mr loser said nothing and delivered the session as if wearing jeans was the norm. Client feedback indicated the blue-jeaned, new normal worked.
"OMG! In a word – Excellent! This is a GREAT course that I would recommend to anyone who really wants to have a working knowledge – beyond our financials – of GAAP and the choices accountants/companies make to ensure stock holder and market confidence. I learned a tremendous amount yesterday. I have to also say that Jim is an awesome facilitator. He worked the room with ease. I loved the “I'm from Ohio” shtick. He clearly has a mastery of the content. And that was important because we had someone from our Finance dept. there to essentially spy on the class."
Finance spies aside, whether faced with another wardrobe malfunction or not, maybe I ought to start wearing blue jeans to future sessions. As long as I avoid safety pins, they certainly can't hurt the "I'm from Ohio" shtick.
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Up next: enjoy your turkey day!!!
