*Note: This post may or may not make the true identity of Podiatry quite clear. Having only worked in this particular retail environment, I cannot speak to whether or not what I'm about to describe is a common retail practice or a program unique to Podiatry. In any case, I will proceed as normal, asking again that no one comment on this site with conjectures or revelations.
As I near my second month anniversary as a Podiatry foot solider (haha, pun intended), I worry that Nelson's cover is growing thinner and thinner. How long can I keep up this grossly untrue facade? The thing is, if I were endowed with hundreds of dollars to spend on a new weekly wardrobe, I am convinced that I could successfully dupe my fellow man into believing that Nelson is Nelson. However, I do not have those funds. My Podiatry paychecks pay little more than for my groceries. I've rotated outfits one too many times...the coworkers that were hired, oriented, and trained alongside me have acquired countless Podiatry goods with which to adorn their figures (that is, blown the entirety of their meager paychecks on high-priced, low-quality items) whereas I've given in only to the allure of the high-quality home fragrances (candles people...they're great when you have two kittens whose massive poop piles fill the house with the sharp and unbearable scent of an unkempt buffalo pen). If Nelson were truly Nelson, would he not take every opportunity to fawn over and purchase the Podiatry clothing with our “generous” 40% discount? And even if he didn't, wouldn't Nelson have an eternity's worth of cleverly conceived-of work outfits with which to dazzle coworkers and customers alike? How can Nelson be Nelson if he wears one of about 5 different ensembles each time he clocks in? How can Nelson be Nelson if all he cares about is candles?
Apart from my lack of wardrobe variety, another incident stands out among the various that have recently highlighted Nelson's fraudulent ways. At the beginning of each month, one of the managers of Podiatry hosts a one hour event in which employees are scheduled (and paid, thank god) to come to the store from 9-10 am (before open) to do a kind of community-building/product knowledge activity. This monthly kick-off is known by the Podiatry staff as “JIVE TIME!” (the name has been changed, clearly, though I wish we were called in and paid for something called “JIVE TIME!”). We all gather in the fitting room and are given certain parameters for that month's particular make-an-outfit challenge, the parameters changing each month to educate us about our brands, the new styles, and certain trends we are pushing.
The first JIVE TIME! I attended, we were paired off to complete our task (task: finding two outfits that matched the adjectives that we randomly drew from a hat...the word “ethereal” gave a lot of my coworkers considerable trouble, and extensive lessons on its definition and pronunciation took up a good 10 percent of our hour together). Because of this partnership, I was able to hide the fact that I was TERRIFIED by having the whole of Podiatry as my palette for creating an outfit for my employee peers to judge. Maybe if I'd been given several days advanced notice, I could have pulled this off alone, but 5 minutes was our time limit. Lucky for me, my partner powered through, finding both of us perfectly “romantic” and “feminine” attire. I was saved.
I did not, however, prove so lucky for June's JIVE TIME! I was on my own...a beached whale, trapped on the shoreline, and told, as it struggled and withered in the sun, to find an outfit composed of the two brands that it pulled from a hat. As the others practically fought their way into the store like a hoard of hyenas on a trajectory toward carrion into which they will eagerly tear, the ideas pumping through their fashionista-brains, I quaked in my boots and worked up a clammy-sweat.
The result on a scale from “Tragic” to “I can do some damage control” was closer to the “damage control” side of the spectrum. Nelson's on the spot oratory skills came to him even in his darkest moment to turn a hopeless situation into a survivable one.
When we had each emerged from our fitting room clothed in our self-selected ensembles, Zebulon, the manager hosting JIVETIME!, bade us give an explanation of the two brands we'd selected and deliver a short speech about the thought-process that governed our outfit choices. My peers looked stunning, taking risks on what to me are hammock-like crocheted sweaters or gauzy poncho-ressembling garments. They'd taken the time to go by the accessories table and choose a bulky piece of jewelry that, alone, looked like toy building blocks strung together or a scarf that I could have sworn was actually a ragged kitchen dishcloth. However, when they put these things all together, it was not a collection of disparate items; it became simply an aesthetic...an impression. If I hadn't been so embarrassed by my own attire, I'd have been in awe.
I on the other hand was wearing:
70s-ish high-waisted, stovepipe-leg jeans that were a size too big, meaning that the stove-pipe concept had turned into more of a smoke-stack concept. And even if the fit was too big, because I'm so tall, the high-waistedness wasn't quite high enough, hitting me JUST below the belly button. As such, it looked like I was trying to be one of those circus clowns on stilts whose pants are hilariously over-sized and attached to his body via suspenders. No suspenders here, however, as I'd chosen a sack-shaped, peach top which, on its own—or paired with skinny jeans—would look perfectly fine. But I was wearing billowy on top of billowy. I misguidedly attempted to give myself some shape with a belt (official commandment number 2 of Podiatry, “Thou shalt belt-it”), but I chose the utterly WRONG belt with tons of detail and textures that conflict with the texture-y details of the top. No matter how I stood or how poised I attempted to appear, I looked like a very clean vagabond.
Somehow, though, when it was my turn to share, I successfully went on the defensive, explaining the “idea” behind the choices and how the time constraint meant that the “execution” of the idea was not ideal...very heady stuff. I spoke as eloquently as possible about the brand, citing facts about when it was first conceived and noting the highlights of its design philosophy. Furthermore, I dropped a well-placed “This brand isn't really consistent with my style," suggesting that I actually have an articulated, coherent style, "but I'm glad to know more about it so I can help the customers.”
Phew. Close one Nelson, but they still haven't found you out. Yet.
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