From the subways of Tokyo to the airports of Athens, join our fashion and lifestyle columnist "No Style" in her quest to get some. Say "fashion victim no more," now, say it again. Ahhh. Doesn't that feel better? The antithesis to the traditional style column, this Ms. puts the capital S back in style...
Ms. No Style
Tips for the Business Traveller: Ms. No Style takes on heels, tweeds and Evil secretaries
How I tried to be the perfect image of the business traveller, that one depicted in the glossy ads where she is the epitome of style. She glides through the airport terminal in high heels, briefcase in hand, power suit perfectly pressed and hair in impeccable form following trans-pacific flights.
It was my first business trip and I was being sent from Tokyo to DC to conduct some business development. My boss had sent me at the last minute in his place, somewhat reluctantly, after his hemorrhoids had painfully flared up making the long flight impossible.
I was excited and nervous. This was my big chance to make a big impression on him. Could lead to a big promotion, I hoped. Central to this trip was a meeting with the big cheese VP of a large corporation.
In my early twenties, I went for style over
substance and packed all wrong. I thought of the impression
I would make on the VP in a crisp white shirt and well tailored
tweed suit - can't go wrong with tweed I thought, a classic.
I also opted for a pair of heels I rushed out to buy - although
I can't walk in them, and had not worn a pair since my high
school prom when pain had forced me to abandon them under
the table.
I arrived in DC near midnight with the big meeting early the next morning. Eager, I laid out my meeting clothes on the second bed. The crisp white shirt had not survived the flight. I had arrived too late for dry cleaning service, and was handed an old iron by the front desk. Ironing has never been a forte, and though I valiantly tried, the shirt remained disgraceful.
The next morning, a heat wave hit DC bringing temperatures up 15 degrees warmer than usual. Being rush hour, the hotel was not able to find me a cab and suggested that I walk the 12 blocks. I set off in my heels, and tweed suit, under the unseasonably hot sun, and started sweating.
My progress was ridiculously slow in those heels. I started worrying about being late. I started sweating more. The shirt wrinkled even more. As I finally reached the building ten minutes after my appointed time, blisters were starting to appear on my feet.
Eager, I entered the elevator pen and note pad in hand. Sometime during the ride up to the 10th floor, I started chewing on my pen. Just as I reached the right floor, seconds before the door opened, the pen broke in my mouth, splashing ink all over my face and unto my white shirt.
The door opened with what sounded like a very loud bell and I found myself in the middle of a very busy office. The busy office workers stared at me like I was a creature that had crawled its way out of a swamp.
Turns out Mr. big cheese had a big meeting coming up soon, and could not wait for me to try to wash up, a cruel secretary explained as she lead me to his corner suite. I tried to turn my predicament into a funny story but he remained unamused and unimpressed by my bedraggled shirt covered in ink, my limp and my tardiness. There is a lot to be said for substance.
Contact Ms. No Style at 5a7@avivalasvegas.com. Make sure to put Ms. No Style in the subject line.
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