My company offers a variety of training courses for employees to participate in, designed to sharpen a specific skill set. The classes range anywhere from presenting 101, to the cast of Second City leading improv training in an effort to showcase and sell creative in a more effective way to clients. It’s brilliant; and so necessary. The first training class I took fresh out of college should have been titled “how to be a human in the working world.” Key takeaway from it was whatever the corporate version of “slap yourself across the face and don’t be an a-hole” is. Duly noted.
Needless to say I’m the poster child for participating in training, and most recently, enrolled myself in a class called “Business Etiquette.” I know the instructor so well we’re on a first name basis; and by “so well” I mean I want her life, and that it’s part of her job to have uncanny name/face recall over time; nonetheless, she’s teaching the class, and I want to be savvy with my clients.
I walk into the room a little late and sit next to my friend who coincidentally is wearing the identical outfit as I am. Two strikes; actually, three because two others in the room tripped over each other to tell us we were twins that day and isn’t that ‘sooo funny’ in a 4th grade sock-hop kind of tone. Ironic start to class; maybe the silver lining was that I actually needed to be there, clearly.
We launch into what business etiquette encompasses and turns out; it’s the broadest topic of all time. We covered everything from which bread plate is yours at the dinner table; to why you shouldn’t talk about symptoms you’re having over the phone with your doctor on the bus. Suddenly, we started talking about travel expenses and acceptable tipping protocol; the girl next to me had an out of body experience and could not stop interrupting the teacher. She had experiences, clearly, in this world; and she want-ed-the-floor. What formerly was known as my training class quickly became an episode of Dr. Phil—the amount of pent up aggression and tension this poor girl had about non-itemized receipts submitted in expense reports was at an unhealthy level. My skillful instructor went with it; she asked just as many “and how does that make you feel” follow up questions to get to the breakthrough and subsequently, closure. Tears, hugging, and surround sound clapping followed; the group moved on to the next topic, that girl moved on to a better version of herself.
Stories followed, which is the most memorable aspect of any training you take. Super effective tool, I might add (write that down.) My awesome instructor (who’s life I secretly covet) launched into a couple of stories where the moral demonstrated how to handle yourself appropriately in difficult situations with clients. One story consisted of a girl who had an unusual first and last name; and the client would email the “other one,” referencing the first; thinking they were two different people. For example: it would be as if my client emailed “Herlihy” (me) referencing an email he got from “Meggie” (also me). Same person, same client: and the girl it was happening to never corrected it. I kept thinking if ever there was a way to induce multiple personality disorder… (and then tried to stop the track my mind wanted to race down); reminds me of that lovely poem “roses are red, violets are blue, I’m a schizophrenic, and so am I.” Cracks me up; probably cracked her up too, in a different way.
The stories continued, but none of them had the star power I was looking for. It was too late before I realized I was the keeper of the best story—one for the ages. One they would talk about for years to come until it became an urban, business etiquette legend. I call it: the Trench Coat Experience.
This past summer brought our clients into our offices often, so we were always ready. If you haven’t experienced Chicago in… well any season… it can be described in one word: sweaty. Summer obviously heightens that testament. My clients were in our office on one particularly humid day in the summer. I came to work; trench coat solidified to my right arm, because Andy Avalos told me it was going to rain on the news that morning. Peeling my coat off my arm, I hang it to dry on the back of my office door, kicking myself that I brought it in the first place. I had to look at the ceiling in the elevator while every person I rode up with gave me the stink eye for such a rookie move in a million degree heat. Thanks, Andy.
I smooth my silk shirt and am impressed with myself for keeping my client friendly outfit intact in these conditions. Just like every morning, I then go upstairs to our cafeteria to get a coffee and what I call a Big-Gulp water (If you’ve ever seen Dumb and Dumber, or have been to a 7-Eleven, you know what I mean. And if you haven’t, I don’t want you to read this anymore anyway.) It’s a massive styrofoam fountain water that would hydrate you if you were walking across the entire Sahara desert. It’s 10 cents, and I live for it. I pay for my coffee and gargantuan ice water, head downstairs, sit at my desk, go to take my first sip of refreshing heaven—and all of a sudden I can’t feel my sinuses. I had somehow just water boarded myself with my Big Gulp; and am absolutely drenched in Titanic temperature fountain water. It was such a shock that I actually experienced what happens in Lake Michigan every summer when I jump in for the first time and feel my lungs collapse inward. My first reaction is to run out into the hallway screaming for Mom and instead decide to shut my office door and survey the damage. It takes me a minute to realize that my white silk blouse resembles a wet tee shirt contest; leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Even after two full ring-outs (yes, into my own garbage can), there’s no shot I can get away with wearing this with clients in. I was SOL.
Now, I’m not proud of what I did next; but I didn’t have another choice. I grabbed my trench coat off the back of my door, head to the bathroom; and remove the soaked shirt entirely. The only thing keeping me from embodying the trench coat flasher is the fact that my pants are still on. My shirt=my trench coat. That’s it. And oddly enough, I’m not nearly as mortified about it as I should be.
I step out of my office directly into the handshake of one of my clients who invites me into the conference room for our meeting. I tell him I’m just “grabbing my notebook” when in reality I was contemplating pulling a Jim Carey in Liar Liar and throwing myself against my office wall; knocking myself out so I can then be excused to go home. Too extreme, I thought—little did I know what I was in for.
Every, single person I came in contact with asked me politely to “take my jacket off and stay awhile” while in meetings with my clients. Coworkers I hadn’t seen in months came out of the woodwork just to stop my in the hallway, totally perplexed by the trench. I kid you not; I spent the entire day rattling off different versions of a story where I was too cold to remove my coat because the AC was up way too high in the office. I deserve an Academy Award for my performance because I pulled it off with no one the wiser; until now, at least.
I think my business etiquette teacher would have commended me for my choices that day. The stories we heard all had morals surrounding a common theme: it is not about the tough circumstances you sometimes find yourself in, but how you react that matters. Sure, I could have gone out and bought another shirt to wear; but when clients are in your office, you are the hostess. Rule #1 of hosting is to put the needs of your guests above your own; and that includes personal comfort. So, I improvised; and the only person who knew I was basically naked in client meetings under my trench that day, was me. Leslie Knope would have done the exact same thing.
