Earned My Dammed Snake Shoes

One question. What went wrong? Where did the ball get dropped. J----?

He was looking for a response. One of our EVPs was looking for a response. For an explanation. From me.

Where to blame, maybe.

I stuttered out an inconclusive response. Into the speakerphone. Into the ears of senior level staff and a design team that worked for weeks.

Collective pulses quickened.

A series of death sentences were announced: over-budget, re-direct, back-to-the-drawing-board.

The designers were silent after their pitch. Poor girl's in the gallows they thought.

Click. click. click. I hang. (up.)

Untested in PR, I try my hand at damage control. Call my boss. Talk to my COO. Call that same EVP back and let him use me as a whipping post.

(Note: There's no crying in Marketing. If you feel the urge, slap yourself in the throat.)

Emails are exchanged. Bosses go to bat from sick beds, from home offices.

Even the design team calls. That was brutal. Are you ok?  We are not giving up.

I'm not giving up either. I laugh to cover up the quiver, the anger.

Shut the door. Let the record show that no one saw or heard me cry.

You've been baptized by fire, says COO. Have a nice evening.

Skip the gym. Get your nails done. Listen to worship music on your way to dinner and drinks.

Fake it 'til you make it. Cut out early. Sleep.
--
Hit it hard the next morning. 158 slides, 3 observers, critique critique critique.

Share a few laughs. Genuine this time. Breath easier.

You're wearing your snake-pit shoes, says COO, you tangled with the snakes, down in their pit, and came out wearing those shoes.