Sketched Up

The other day I went to the store to get some Skechers. A simple plan: walk in, find a pair that won’t make my knees sound like bubble wrap, and head home. That’s it. No drama. No detours. But life, as usual, had other plans.

Inside, I met a man who introduced himself as a regional sales manager. Now, you have to understand, nobody ever casually drops “regional sales manager” into conversation unless they really want you to know they’ve made it to middle management glory. It’s like saying, “I don’t just have business cards—I hand them out like they’re golden tickets.”

He shook my hand like he was closing a million-dollar deal and said, “Looking for Skechers? You’ve come to the right place.” I mean, yes—obviously. That’s why I was in the Skechers store. But I didn’t have the heart to point out the obvious. He looked too proud, like he was about to knight me with a shoelace.

What followed was less of a shopping trip and more of a corporate onboarding session. He started giving me a TED Talk about arch support, memory foam, and how Skechers is “positioning itself as both lifestyle and performance footwear.” I just nodded politely, trying to sneak a glance at the slip-ons while he explained how this exact model was “crushing it in Q3.” Who talks like that about sneakers? Regional sales managers, that’s who.

At one point, he leaned in and whispered like we were sharing state secrets. “These aren’t just shoes,” he said. “These are a brand experience.” A brand experience. Sir, I just wanted something I could wear to the grocery store without looking like I gave up on life. I wasn’t trying to join a movement.

Then came the demo. Oh yes—he insisted I try on three pairs while he crouched down like Phil Jackson drawing plays on the court. “Now walk toward me,” he said. I shuffled forward, feeling like I was auditioning for America’s Next Top Skechers Model. He nodded, serious as a judge on Shark Tank. “See that? Notice the bounce? Notice the posture?” I wanted to tell him the only thing I noticed was how ridiculous I looked walking a runway between discount socks and a rack of shoelaces.

The man had passion, I’ll give him that. He spoke about Skechers the way preachers talk about salvation. At one point, I swear he said, “These shoes can change your life.” Which is a bold statement for footwear—unless they also come with free Wi-Fi and a 401(k).

Eventually, I caved and picked a pair. He rang me up himself—yes, the regional sales manager rang me up personally, like I was buying a Bentley instead of sneakers. He put the box in the bag with the ceremony of someone handing over Olympic medals. “Welcome to the Skechers family,” he said solemnly. I half expected confetti to fall from the ceiling.

Walking out, I couldn’t decide if I’d just purchased shoes or been recruited into a pyramid scheme. But here’s the kicker: I wore them out of the store, and five minutes later I tripped on the curb. Flat out. Right in front of the display window. And when I looked up, guess who was there? The regional sales manager, arms folded, nodding approvingly. “See? Great flexibility. You popped right back up.”

So yeah, the other day I went to the store for Skechers. Instead, I got a motivational seminar, a performance review on my walking technique, and possibly a new mentor in the footwear industry. The shoes are fine. But the story? That’s priceless.