Fifteen years ago I thought my path lay in acting. So for three days each week--for about six months, until I realized that I didn't want that life, I'd take the train, bus or drive to NYC for auditions and classes. I lived three hours away. You wanna talk about long days of travel, rejection and confusion...
Though I'd find out clearly one day (that's a different story!) that doing the NYC starving-actor thing wasn't for me, I walked away with a slew of memories and unique stories. Remind me to tell you more another time but for now...
One day, while I was frightened beyond my capacity in "putting myself out there" and "trying to be seen", I ducked into one of 10,000 shoe stores in Manhattan. Hoping to get a pair of something conservative yet stylish, I tried on several pair and found that nothing was fitting. The shoe salesman was getting visibly frustrated with me. He was doing a performance of his own, holding his head in his hands, shrugging in amazement and breathing like an old steam radiator--from Jamaica.
As insecure as I was, I still knew that it was up to them to produce a pair of shoes that fit me, not for me to produce feet that filled their shoes. Nonetheless, I confess that felt like a fool with a gaggle of other shoe salesmen hanging around this empty store--watching their colleague working overtime with me, the customer who wouldn't just buy some shoes.
This had to end. I resolved (under almost intolerable pressure from the whole situation) that if these shoes were even reasonably comfortable, I'd buy them. Finally the chubby, frustrated Jamaican dude brings me over one more pair of shoes--that by his taunting posture and arrogant way of offering them to me, let me realize that I was now holding the finest shoe he could produce...the one pair that no man could deny. As soon as I put one on, I knew!
More crap! Could they gouge my feet in more places?! Looming over me with a face like Dirty Harry's saying, "I dare you not to like and buy these, punk" I looked up shaking my head and said, "...no, they hurt my feet". Exasperated, he attempted a final coup de gras!
Shaking his head in disbelief while raising his hands to the heavens, he called out for all to hear, "Dose are Nunn Bush, Mon!"
What in the hell does them being Nunn Bush have to do with anything?! If they are killing my feet should I feel better because people will see what I'm wearing as I'm limping down Park Ave?
Likewise if your attitude sucks, your workmanship is mediocre or you're unable to deliver on the promise of your service--who cares how cute you are, how fancy your site is or how assertively you speak?
Let who you are do the talking.