When you're standing on one end of the hallway, you can hear someone coming from the other end, so heels can make quite a clatter. On any given day, I'm wearing some shoe creation that has a squeak or a scrunch or whine effect of some sort. It seems to become amplified exponentially when I walk that hallway.
On more occasions than I can remember (like today), I am immediately reminded of Zelda Rubenstein (pictured) as the organist in Sixteen Candles; an aging small person in a matronly dress, shuffling down the church aisle to take her place. The camera remains still as she walks with her back to it. You can hear a loud swishing of what must be a half pint of rum or some other spirit she keeps on her person. It's a subtle, sad, silly noise and it adds a dimension to her otherwise prim and visibly annoyed character.
In my case, the noise my shoe is making instantly inspires awkwardness. If any of my younger counterparts were walking behind me, would they hear it? Would they think I was too heavy in my shoes? Would they think I looked and sounded cheap?
Was I walking funny too? A litany of self-conscious thoughts plagues me until I arrive in an area that's noisier than my perceived apparel cacophony.
Safely at my desk after that morning's "creak", it's only a matter of time before I'll face that walk again, and the lightly lingering worry that someone will find cause to mock or otherwise disparage my already fragile fashion sense.
Thanks John Hughes.
