Blunder # 3: Nelson’s mask comes off

Podiatry boasts a “generous” discount for its employees.  If we desire a full-priced item of clothing, we pay a mere 60% of the full price.  If we desire a home item, we pay 75% of the price.  Anything on sale, however, is available to us at the price listed on the tag.  But every once in awhile, when employees are least expecting it, the company announces, via email, surprise periods of time during which ALL goods are 40% off to its employees.  These periods are called (for the purposes of this blog) THE AGE OF PODIATRY.  

Being excellent times to actually purchase some quality things for somewhat reasonable prices, all employees look forward to THE AGE OF PODIATRY.  We whisper excitedly and semi-constantly about when the next AGE may be.  “Haven’t had an AGE in awhile, you think it’s coming?”  “I heard we’d have an AGE after this next markdown.  I sure hope so.”  “I’m waiting for an AGE until I buy that vase.”

A few weeks ago, we got the messiah of all emails: “Announcing THE AGE OF PODIATRY now through Sunday!”  It had, indeed, come immediately after a payday; they get you right when you’ve got cash in the coffers.  Having only purchased a few candles throughout my time as an employee and anticipating the overwhelming number of August birthdays I have marked on my calendar (3 family members, 4 good friends), I suddenly decided that it was time to break down and truly give in to THE AGE OF PODIATRY.

I meant to do my shopping immediately after a shift when I was still in costume and makeup, but once my time to clock out came round, all I could think of was getting out of there.  The days left in the AGE were dwindling, and I had yet to do my massive bout of shopping.  As I scrubbed the bathtub while a pot of mustard greens were steaming on the stove (I was cleaning the house and making dinner for a pair of friends coming to stay the night), I realized with horror that if I did not stop what I was doing and dash immediately to Podiatry, I’d miss my window of savings.

But what about Nelson?  If I went then and there, it’d be ME going into Podiatry, NOT Nelson.  I needed an hour at least to get into character, and what with the dinner to prepare and the catbox left to clean, I didn’t have that kind of time to spend on my facade.  The choice was clear: get in and get out as quickly as possible.

As I drove over to Podiatry, I began to realize fully just what a grand mistake this was.  I’d chosen the entirely WRONG moment to be caught without a disguise.  The miserly side of me refuses to let our thermostat go below 78 even on the hottest of days; thus I was particularly sweaty and red-faced from a day of cleaning at that moment.  My outfit of choice: oversized, burlap-resembling shorts and a faded racerback tee that I claimed after finding in a dryer somewhere.  Oh, and a sports bra.  I smelled like bleach-cleaner and sweat.  My legs were unshaven.  My hair looked like a mushroom cloud around my head.  

It was in this state that I rushed madly into the store, carrying my own bag and shoveling things in it left and right.  I ran into Tiny Tim first.  He gave me not just a once over, but a twice and three-times-over, his head literally moving from the top of my body to my shoes three times in order to fully take in the horror he was witnessing.  “Yeah, heh, I know, I’m uh...still cleaning my house! Haha!  But I ran over here in the middle of chores because I just, you know need some...” I looked at what I was clutching in my hands--dish towels for my mother-in-law-- “dishtowels with birds on them!  Haha!”  He smiled an odd smile and pranced away on his chopstick legs.  

I dashed from fixture to fixture, hiding behind towers of candles or racks of long dresses to conceal myself yet could not seem to escape coming across other coworkers as the floor was crawling with them on what seemed to be a busy sales day:  Zebulon, Mama Skaggs, and of course Moonblood who I’ve come to dread as of late.  (Moonblood’s one of those who literally ends every shift with a clothing purchase, wearing only the latest fashions displayed in the store...never seen her repeat an outfit...and how can she afford all of these luxuries?...living at home and spending all of her Podiatry earnings on body-coverings, not on rent or food.)  Moonblood had just returned from a 2 week family vacay to various European countries.  “Oh wow, I guess I haven’t seen you in about 3 weeks then,” she said in reaction to me as she rung up my pile of purchases, giving me the thrice-over as did Tiny Tim.  When not regarding with curiosity the things I was buying, her slit-like eyes were burning into my body, deconstructing the mess she observed before her and trying to connect me with Nelson.  

My things unnecessarily wrapped up in the signature Podiatry tissue paper and thin packing tape, I headed for the door, weaving in and out of the various fixtures obstructing my quick exit, turning a last time to see my colleagues puzzled faces turned in my direction.  

The ruse was up.  

Nelson's final bow

Here I sit on the couch, out of breath after a frantic on-foot trip to Walgreens where I went--slightly tipsy--in order to attend to an emergency: the cats were hungry and we’d already served them the last scoop of dried pellets to be found in the bag.  I had just consumed a single Paulaner hefeweizen and one third of a glass of 2 week old cabernet sauvignon (to be fair, I thought it was fresh).  As I jetted out of the house in the direction of the little store, I realized in the light of the evening sun that my dark brown cotton dress was covered in short, white animal hairs.  "Great,” I muttered to myself, “this’ll just add to my prowess...bloodshot eyes, ashy, chlorine-coated skin, stiff, unkempt hair; I’m gonna turn some heads in there.”  After an afternoon at the mini water-park with a four year old, I was left suffering from a stubbed toe, a mild case of housewife’s knee, and the beginnings of pinkeye.  Limping a bit from my pool injuries and swaying slightly to and fro from the influence of one unit alcohol taken on a relatively empty stomach, I was pleased to find few people in Walgreens and hastily conducted the transaction.    

But I’m home now.  My weekend babysitting gig is through, the cats are satiated, and I’ve just discovered a fresh bottle of merlot.    

This is my life: living in a sports bra and cotton tees from one errand to the next, having fun cooking with my man friend, then worrying about how long I can leave the dishes in the sink before they start attracting fruit flies.  When I’m me and not Nelson, I don’t worry about ruching or empire waists or “back interest” and nerdy chicness.  And now I can be me all the time.  Let the celebrating begin!  

My run as Nelson came to an end at noon yesterday.  As the curtain fell for the last time, I slipped out backstage, opting not to take an elaborate series of final bows preferring to make a quiet exit.  An arduous child-wrangling afternoon ahead of me, I needed to avoid a long chorus of cutesy goodbyes from my coworkers.  So I drove away from Podiatry for the last time like it was any other day.

I’ll reflect on the experience in this space as opposed to trying to process it while still in the store, surrounded by things that I felt a serious urge to buy and by people who, while nice, I never felt at home with.  In the end, my time at Podiatry was a lot different than I expected, and I learned a lot.  After explaining blunder number 3, the blunder that heralded the end of Nelson’s career, I will begin to pick apart the Podiatry world, examining its constituent parts, and making conclusions about this wacky world in which we live. 

Blunder Number 2: Birds, birds everywhere

Before the doors are unlocked every morning at Podiatry and the quivering ball of humanity that had previously been pawing at the windows for entry is finally allowed to surge through our faux-rustic doors to begin grabbing at that particular day’s assortment of luxuries, we have a morning meeting.  It is at this moment that we learn a litany of facts about how the company as a whole is performing, how our particular branch fares in comparison, and how much money we are expected to weasel out of our customers for the day. 

(Personally I feel that, although this information can be somewhat interesting at times, it is of little use for us, the underlings, to actually know.  I believe that they throw these numbers at us in an effort to coax us into feeling that we have some kind of true stake or ownership in the swirling shitstorm of corporate, bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo that takes place entirely outside of our awareness or control.  Whether or not the company makes their sales quota for the day does not mean that my hourly wage rises to a reasonable rate or falls to the slave labor category.) 

If time permits, after we do the numbers, we participate in a product-knowledge-building activity.  I previously explained JIVETIME!, wherein we select and try on clothes from the salesfloor based on some kind of game-like prompt and then compete to have the best outfit (I’m not kidding).  This is but one example of product-knowledge-building during morning meetings.  Some activities consist simply of reading about and discussing the design philosophy behind the latest fashions and “concepts” as they call them.

The other morning’s product knowledge chat began with a prompting question from Zebulon: “So what are the new trends you see in the pieces we’ve been receiving and putting out for the fall collection?”  

Ask me to see trends in national literary movements over the span of a couple of centuries, and I'm dandy.  Ask me to spot trends in some clothes in a store, and I start to sweat.  

There are two ways to fool someone into thinking you have some kind of knowledge.  The first is to answer confidently but with something vague.  The confidence throws them off of the scent of your stupidity, and the vagueness hints at the possibility of knowledge.  The second tactic is to listen to the expert knowledge of others then do some creative semantic tweaking; say what they say using bigger words or with a different example.  

Maybe I hadn't consumed quite enough coffee for my brain to be properly functioning at the time, but I was the one to voluntarily vomit out the first answer, unfortunately employing neither tactic.  "Well, I've noticed a lot of bird prints lately," I said, looking around for some nods of approval.  Stares.  "You know, there are birds on things?  Like on that shirt over there?  And that...thing...over there?"  

More stares. 

Zebulon finally spoke, "Yeah, but, I was kinda talking more about, like, textures and themes, you know?  I mean, Podiatry kinda always has a bird motif going on."  Everyone nodded.  I realized she was right.  Apart from knowing for sure that there will be expensive things, you can almost always count on there being bird things in Podiatry.  Not everywhere, but somewhere there's a bird, watching you.  

"Well, what I was getting at was how our new stuff is really, you know, nerdy chic, like lots of structured, masculine stuff with an edge."  Tiny Tim chimed in, "Yeah, it's like, very...collegiate....but feminine."  Way to use tactic number 2, TT: semantic scrambling of stuff people already said. 

Much like my cape of fear incident, the magnitude of the failure did not encourage me to work hard at recovery.  It was an admit defeat and retreat moment.  The punctures are forming fast in my hot-air balloon of a story; how much longer can I stay aloft over the expensive, bourgeois, retail landscape that is Podiatry?

THE CAPE OF FEAR

As my time at Podiatry wears on (clothing retail pun intended), Nelson’s glossy facade is beginning to weather much like a golden obelisk marking the middle of some Italian piazza that has been exposed to hundreds of years of precipitation.  Whereas in the early days, my performance shone brilliantly, my bit has become harder to sustain as the rust gathers on my facade and the cracks begin to show.  I feel like Sinbad’s character in the smash-hit film and timeless classic Houseguest; initially able to fool the world into believing him to be a world-renowned dentist only to become subjected to a series of ever more difficult tasks impossible to fake.  And where did he end up?  Well, if I remember the plot correctly, AND I DO BECAUSE I LOVE THAT MOVIE AND WILL UNTIL THE DAY I DIE,  even though his true identity is discovered, he still ends up with a sweet book deal and a red Porsche.

I fear that, soon, my identity will be found out.  (But worry not, dear readers, for I have no doubt that a career as a novelist and a new automobile is in my future just like it was for Kevin Frank of Houseguest.)  Why does Nelson fear that the Podiatry community may soon turn on him and  instead of lavishing him with applause, throw weeks-old, moldy tomatoes at him on stage from their seats in the audience?  3 substantial blunders, my friends.

First, the cape of fear.  I was on a fitting-room roll for two months, relying on my master instincts to kick in and give me the perfect hook-line-and-sinker when customers came out looking like clowns.  “You look dashing,” I could say with a wink, and they’d head for the register, wallets already drawn.  That is until I met the cape of fear.

More sweater than cape, these hideous things had been hanging in the sale room for ages, cast aside by the sane, inspected cautiously by the adventurous, and touched by the fools.  But until this day, no human had been asinine enough to actually TRY ONE ON.  Out comes...we’ll call her Elmo...wrapped in the cape.

Let me try to explain what this thing is.  Pattern and colors: (I’ve got Sinbad on the mind, so I’ll keep going with him as my referent for awhile) A mix between a Cosby sweater and the perplexing conglomeration of shapes and colors you’d see on one of the jumpsuits Sinbad wore in his early 90’s stand-up specials.  Cut: A sweater, one side of which came down to the hip, the other side of which hung like a towel on a clothesline all the way down to the floor.  

“How do you wear this?”  she asked, tentatively. 

I knew I was in a bind.  “Uh,” I stammered, unable to truly recover from the disgust bubbling up in my body in reaction to this garment, “I, uh....” her stare went straight through Nelson and into my true self.  I rushed over to where she was standing in the mirror, trying to recover.  “You...TIE it!” I said quickly, grabbing the yard of extra material and twisting it into a knot with the other side which gave it a kind of straightjacket look.  

She regarded herself in the mirror and said, skeptically, “I...don’t think that’s quite right.”          

“Well,” I said, about to proffer another response, but realized that the hole I’d dug was insurmountable.  My character deflated entirely.  “I...DON’T KNOW,” I admitted and shrunk into the shadows to lick the wounds of defeat by humbly folding $100 pairs of yoga pants for backstock.

The other two blunders to follow...

Nelson is Shakespeare: My Bag-o-fashionwords

It was another smashing evening performance in the fitting room for Nelson; my clothing counsel was met with thunderous applause from those who received it, and countless cries of “Encore! Encore!” rang throughout Podiatry during my shift.  From the moment I opened the door to their fitting room saying “And my name is Nelson! Please let me know if I can do anything for you,” they were putty in my manly hands.  How does he do it?  How does he pull off a convincing performance when his true product knowledge is non-existent?  

Just as Shakespeare exploited the power of puns, metaphors, and malapropisms in order to create dramatic masterpieces, Nelson has discovered the power of certain words...certain turns of phrase.  The thing is, these literary devices did not come from a script.  No one instructed me in “fashion-speak,” and my understanding of fabrics, cuts, and styles is limited to none.  These are words that entered my world at some point in time in my life (i.e. that time I actually committed to watching Project Runway, season 3 I believe it was), rolled around my subconscious, became buried in the wrinkly folds of my brain, and were then resurrected magically when Nelson first got into costume.  Read and learn.  

Nelson’s Bag-o-Fashionwords

Ruching.  (My definition: the use of gathered fabric on an item of clothing, oftentimes achieved with elastic.) To reiterate, I have no idea how or when I came to know what “ruching” is.  In fact, I wasn’t even aware that it was in my vocabulary until I was suddenly saying to someone “Oh wow, the ruching on the back there is very flattering.”  Even if I’m not always certain if I’m using the word correctly, dropping it with authority always makes their eyes wide with respect and awe: RUCHING.  It sounds technical, and people who know technique understand clothing.  With words like ruching, it’s OBVIOUS that Nelson understands clothing.  

Tailored.  (My definition: adjective often used to refer to clothes that have a specific, more controlled shape.)  Originally, I’d say that “tailored” had some connection to the “tailor,” the human who sewed the garment; to be tailored meant that the garment had been handled and manipulated by the tailor.  In 21st century terms, then, tailored would have to mean that the garment has been handled and manipulated by a host of foreign child laborers.  However, the word must have lost this connection because now, instead of being a word that reminds people of their undue privilege, it’s another one of those terms that, used confidently, inspires belief in Nelson’s advice.  “That’s such a smart, tailored look,” I might say.  Again, the word is ambiguous but somewhat technical, giving the customer the idea that I am the keeper of fashion understanding.    

Empire waist.  (My definition:  when a dress or top has a seam just under the bust and then is un-fitted throughout the waist and hips.)  This is a term that most people know and use.  But Nelson takes it a step further by bringing a touch of exoticism to the table.  Any ole nobody can say “empire waist.”  But can they give it the French twist?  Instead of saying “im-pyre,” pronounce it as the French would: “ahm-peer” with the subtle back-of-the-throat French rrrrrr at the end.  Who knows if this style actually originated in France or England or some other European country.  History is irrelevant to today’s consumer whereas flair is everything.  “Ahm-peerrrr” turns heads every time and almost guarantees a purchase on the part of the customer. 

Take today for instance.  A woman, let’s call her Ashkenazy, was searching for a dress to give as a gift to a friend.  She was interested in something long and summery and wanted to make sure that it would be flattering on most all figures.  I immediately thought of the $268 summer-camp-tie-dye-session-gone-horribly-wrong dress hanging in the front of the store and led her in that direction.  “If you’ll notice the elastic ahm-peer waist on this one, you’ll see that it will give if it needs to or contract if it doesn’t.  These cuts are really capable of making anyone look classy.”  I wasn’t lying about the flattering cut.  But no one would look classy in that print.  It’s looks like what would happen if Lisa Frank suddenly felt that her calling was abstract art and started lamely exploring that aesthetic but with her same color palette.  Despite this print-transgression on the part of the designer, Ashkenazy grabbed it up, totally in awe of the ahm-peer waist, and added it onto her tab which ended up totaling $800.    

I’ll add on to the Bag-o-Fashionwords continually as I pinpoint the little gems that help Nelson fool the world...

They've roped me in...

It's happened. They've accomplished their sick, sad goal to dominate the brains, wallets, and lives of their customers and employees. They've ROPED ME IN. They may still be paying me (minimally), but now...NOW I'M PAYING THEM.

I bought a top from Podiatry. Granted, it was heavily discounted (60% instead of our normal 40%), but even with all those percents slashed from the original price the single top drained forty smackers from my humble checking account. It's a long white tunic shirt with elaborate embroidery on the neckline and cuffs of the three-quarter-length bell sleeves; despite the fact that the material is quite thin and see-through, it's of a pretty high quality (unlike much of what we sell for over a hundred bucks).

I'm not sure if I bought it because it is a beautiful top...it is...or if I did it because I felt I needed more options for work-clothes...I did need that, I believe...or if there is a more insidious reason: the need to belong. That in itself is not an insidious need, but giving in to a system in which you have to buy things in order to feel that you belong...that's not necessarily the best option.

Here's the shocker: it worked. I wore the magic top two days ago, and my coworkers practically SCREAMED with delight at the initial sight of my Podiatry-clothed body. “OHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYY GOOODDDDDDD! That looks SOOOOOOOOOOOO good on you!” or “Well, look at you!!!!!” etc. I've gotten not so much as a nod to my attire before this. If anything, the magic top made people notice more than my attire; it made some people notice NELSON for the first time.

Unless I'm mistaken, before the advent of the top, JubJub and I were not on the best of terms. Out of all the managers at Podiatry, I'd argue that JubJub has received me in the least friendly of manners. Her behavior was not out and out hostile, but it was markedly less friendly, and, at moments, somewhat passive aggressive.

For example, during my performance debut as Nelson, I was “processing” clothing in the fitting room (unnecessarily formal jargon for putting things back on the hangers that the lazy-ass customers leave littered on the floor), and Mama Skaggs informed me that a particular jean was hung in a special, confusing fashion. She quickly demonstrated the awkward steps: grab it by the crotch area then make it straddle the right side of the hanger allowing the legs to drop to one side then twisting the legs around the left part so that they hang limp over the back. Unable NOT to anthropomorphize the jeans, I felt dirty watching her do it, listening to her explain it, and then attempting it myself. She departed as I tried and tried to make my jeans match the example on the hanger, grabbing the crotch over and over again. JubJub came in to grab some “go-backs” (a no-nonsense term referring to the “processed” items ready to return to their rightful place on the floor), and before she whisked them away, I asked her for some advice on this complicated method, much to her chagrin. Although the store atmosphere was not particularly hectic at that point, perhaps she had a specific objective in mind and did not want to be bothered. In any case, she looked at me, annoyed, as she hastily fled my presence, throwing out an emphatic, “You know, Nelson, it doesn't really matter right now. We can talk about this later.” Well, which is it Podiatry managers? Do you want me to care about the jean-hanging? Or does it not really matter?

Maybe she was just having a bad day, but whereas the other managers and I have shared at least some personal information and joked around a bit, it has consistently been all business with me'n'JubJub. UNTIL two days ago and, of course, the top. Suddenly we're talking, joking, she's asking me this and that about my life. With the top on, I'm worthy of her attention?

The top-buying experience was an interesting one, but I think it's back to soap and candles only for my Podiatry purchases seeing as the top constituted roughly a fourth of my last paycheck (though the upcoming monies should be much greater...I hope). Maybe I should put into action a new experiment in which I wear nothing BUT the top for the next month. JubJub would probably do a 180 going back to giving me the cold shoulder...maybe she'd take it even further and not even look at me. Course after a month of wearing nothing but the same white shirt, I probably wouldn't want to look at me either.

Nelson is a FRAUD

*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.