Investments for an awkward-proof life

Yesterday at around 12.10pm, I experienced what was perhaps one of the most awkward moments of my adult life. At 6 hours and 40 minutes, it was undoubtedly the longest. I entered the client office with my colleagues [the suits, those who meet clients and make 17 ppts a day]. Since I was given a headsup of a possible visit to the client’s place, I had made efforts to dress well. But turns out I had forgotten about my choice of footwear. I wore flip-flops. Well, flip-flops with some thick heels or something like that. In my defense, they were mostly black with just a tiny bit of red in the straps.
Before I go on, you need to about the client we were visiting. They are our biggest and also the angriest. Important things going wrong make them angry [obviously] so do lame silly harmless things [duh!].
So, the meeting was to begin at 12 pm. We were before time, and used the time to discuss our ideas, set the presentation and fill up the whiteboard with clever and meaningful red, blue and black gabble. Just before 12, someone from the client side informed us of a possible 20 minute delay in the start of the meeting. Since we were more than ready with the preparations, I considered brushing my hair and fix that bothersome strand of hair that stopped me from looking the super-corporate woman that I thought I looked. So, I got up from the chair, picked up my bag and headed to the door, walking tall in my flip-flop heels, and then all of a sudden I was tall no more. The red strap gave away. No it did not tear. Flip-flops unlike leather sandals don’t tear, they give away. I turned a shade of crimson. A shade called disgrace. I looked around, I tried taking a step, and I couldn’t. I mean I couldn’t take a step without looking like a woman whose cheap footwear had failed her. I hurriedly got back to my chair, unkempt hair could wait, none of my colleagues at noticed. Since the strap wasn’t torn, I thought of several quick fixes. I thought of taking the pantry staff’s help, for which I would be required to step out of the meeting room; that obviously wasn’t an option. I dug deep in my bag to look for something, something to hold on to my fast-vanishing honor. And because God loves me, I had my hair in a ponytail. Not down, not in a clip, but held together by a black rubber band. The thick soft-kind. I slid the band through the flip-flop and my feet, holding them together. The jeans, which was little longer than it should have been, helped cover the black band. The client arrived, discussion happened, the rubber band never came off. One of the nosy younger lots did notice my discomfort when I had to get up from my chair and explain a point on the whiteboard but otherwise it ended without anymore disasters.
I left the client office, took a deep breath, got in my colleague’s car, looked down at the miracle band and made a list of my investment plans. Mutual funds didn’t make it to the list.