Yesterday I went to a meeting with one of the partners - he walked; I ran.
No, I wasn't late - he's 6 feet tall! And I...well...I'm not. So his moderate walking speed has me jogging along beside, desperately trying to keep up...in heels.
Fairly new heels.
And then, to top it off, he wants to chit chat while we are "walking" to the meeting. Of course, he doesn't stick to the one-word-answer-questions. You know things like, 'it's nice out, isn't it?' or 'did you have a nice evening?' or 'this meeting should go well, hey?'
These are all questions to which I could nod and smile in agreement or to which a quick, "Yes" would suffice.
No, he asked questions that start with, "what are your thoughts on..." or "what are your plans for..." or "who do you think will win...". Crap. So now I'm racing along in heels, spouting off my long-winded opinions on world issues, product placement and profits, and sports predictions.
Not only do his freakishly long legs put him at a leopards pace, they also move his mouth about a foot and a half above my ears. So I'm having to run along, talking, and staring upwards toward the sky cause it's difficult to hear someone that far away, so I have to do a little lip-reading to be sure that we are talking about Sidney Crosby, not Bill Cosby, which makes averting obstacles an obstacle by its own right. This leaves me bouncing off ill-placed tables and garbage bins at regular intervals, each time setting me back an additional pace and a half.
By the time we arrive at said meeting, I'm out of breath, my feet are spotted with blisters and I've acquired a couple bruises from above mentioned tables and garbage bins.
I don't know why I even went to that meeting. I didn't hear a thing. I spent the first twenty minutes recovering and the last twenty psyching myself up for the trek back. In my next life, I shall have a height restriction on the people I choose to work with.
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