Weather report: Rain, in mid 40s. What's on the calendar? Meetings and ah yes, lunch with a former colleague and friend. What shoes?
I do not suppose that any normal person would think about their shoes upon arising but really you should. My window to the soul is the sole (and the heels). While I'm hopeless at picking stocks (see Qualcomm), I know everything from the scuff marks, the down at the heel heels, the round or squareness of the toe box.
I suppose I should explain:
Many years ago I was invited to a rather swank and private party at Bergdorf Goodman. When I got up that morning, I saw three inches of snow had fallen overnight. Very bad. Everything had to change -- the pants, the coat, the hat and most importantly the shoes.
While I would have loved to throw caution to the winds and wear the perfect ballerina heel, I knew I couldn't. Big, heavy, leather boots c'est moi. What a pity.
I took the train to New York and then the subway to 53rd and Fifth. As I crossed 57th Street I spotted two stunning creatures alighting from a black Lincoln Town Car. Wearing the most impossibly high and strappy sandals and slingback pumps, they entered BG's side entrance and the three of us shared the elevator to the third floor.
You don't need to rub it in, I know: Bring the gorgeous ballerinas and change in the ladies room.
I still think about that morning tea and how it doesn't matter how much therapy you've had, how many clients you've helped, how many campaigns you've launched. Sometimes all that really matters is wearing the right shoe, nor'easter be damned.