Dressed for success 2/4: An unlikely stroll

Philadelphia’s signature aroma in the late 1980s was a distinctive blend of diesel fuel, urine, and a few hundred years of accumulated grime. In the summer, with its oppressive humidity and temperatures reaching into the 90ºs, this fragrance was accented by notes of garbage, sweat, and melting hair product. The heat and stink of the streets made loitering there or touching public surfaces undesirable. You certainly wouldn’t want to do what I did one extremely hot day in 1988.

That was the day I found myself walking to the 30th Street station after one of my first job interviews, wearing my finest grown-up clothes, and . . . no shoes. My bare feet were blistered, swollen, and burning. With each step on the scalding sidewalks I was accumulating more filth, shards of glass, and other debris in my butchered flesh.

Once again, I’d made a terrible wardrobe miscalculation.

I had gotten up early that August day to prepare for an interview at a major nonprofit in downtown Philadelphia, which would require a half hour train ride into the city and then a six-block walk to my final destination. The forecast? Hot even by Philadelphia standards.

I put on a long-sleeve silk shirt (fine in air conditioning, not so good in sweltering heat) and an unlined, rust-colored linen pencil skirt. I had a pair of not-too-high black heels that were new, but I hesitated over the pantyhose. I didn’t want to look unprofessional, but, ugh . . . the awful heat and humidity. It wouldn’t do to show up for my interview all sweaty, would it? And if I wore hose, I’d have to wear a slip, too. Should I skip the hose? My legs were kinda sorta tan (read: not remotely tan). But I’d be sitting at a desk. Hopefully no one would notice. So I ignored the tiny alarm going off in my head, and went au naturel.

As I headed off for the interview, I felt like a charlatan in my fancy clothes. How did women wear stuff like this all the time? The shoes were remarkably uncomfortable, and the heat seemed to make them rub more. Hmmm. “Stay calm. Don’t sweat,” I thought. I’d just have to walk slowly and carefully.

I arrived for the interview with blisters starting to form on my heels, but I was determined not to draw attention to my poor judgement or my unclad legs. I was greeted by one of the organization’s higher-ups, a charismatic guy I’ll call Mr. Happy. He was an evangelist for hiring promising young people and cultivating them.

He greeted me like a long-lost friend. I expected him to invite me into his office so that I could sit down comfortably and begin enumerating my impressive lack of credentials, but he didn‘t. Instead, he asked if I’d like a tour. “Sure!” I said, trying to match his enthusiasm. And so we set off on what would prove to be an epic test of endurance, a sort of corporate tough mudder with a lot of handshaking instead of mud.

On our marathon tour of the facility, which consisted of two separate buildings, Mr. Happy introduced me with gusto to about a hundred of his closest friends. He walked so fast I wondered if he’d been snorting coke (probably not on a nonprofit salary, I mused). Elevators? Those are for wimps! I chased him up and down the non-air-conditioned stairs, demonstrating my upward and downward mobility. I kept up. And I kept a smile on my face during the entire ordeal, through the final handshakes, and out the front door.

As soon as I got a block from the building I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me, and then let loose a pathetic sob. I peeled the shoes off and assessed the damage. My skin was weeping and delaminated in several places—on several toes, the back of my heels, and other pressure points. The sidewalks had begun burning my feet, but there was no way in hell—and Market Street was feeling pretty hellish right about then—I was putting those shoes back on.

I headed toward the train station, hopping from shadow to shadow as best I could, the loathsome pumps clutched in one hand. People were staring at me and shaking their heads. A child pointed and said, “Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady?” I forced a thin smile through gritted teeth and did my best to pretend I was skipping through a meadow of wildflowers.