Yes, even in the summer. It's actually worse during the warmer months, because they so grossly overcompensate for the heat that I sit at my desk, teeth chattering, goosebumps, and unable to perform my responsibilities because I'm too friggin' COLD to think straight. That is, without a coat. Which is why I wear it.
Anyway. My sister gave me the coat for Christmas in 2000. The thing was already old when I discovered its true usefulness upon starting this job in early 2005, but since then, its constant wear and the fact that it's never once seen a washing machine has created this sort of "shell" that's perfectly formed to my body, smells just like me, and is more comfortable in every way than your favorite grandma's hug. Truly.
I knew its last day was soon coming, and I'm so attached to the thing that the thought of retiring it to the back of a closet saddened me more than I'd be willing to admit. Note the blown out elbows, missing button, and the dirty, matted collar. I'm not one to get attached to things like clothing, but this jacket represents the past eight years of my life. That's a third of all my years on earth! I even wore it during pregnancy when it would barely cover my sides and looked clownish. In short, I LOVE this jacket.
Meanwhile, hundreds of people are eyeing me, whispering to each other, "What's up with the girl in the coat? Does she know it's hot outside? She's kinda . . . weird." And I'm not making this up. Up until recently, Ted worked down in the factory, and every day during my lunch I'd walk along the mezzanine above him and his coworkers on my way to the employee cafeteria. The same routine I've had for years. Not long ago, Ted cautiously said to me, "The printers down there are asking me why you always wear that coat . . ."
Wait. WHAT?
I was mortified. The laborers are wondering about my apparel?! They wear sweaty t-shirts and cut-off shorts to work everyday, not to mention the fact that they only shower once a week. And they're making note of my jacket? I've never had a single interation with these people, and they were inclined to ask about the jacket. It was enough to make me reexamine what other people are seeing when I pass them in the hallways.
Then I got angry. And defensive. And rebellious. Screw them! I'll be buried in this thing, just to spite them and their judging ways!
I don't know if it was mere curiosity, or self-consciousness, or maybe a little of both. But I started to bring up the subject offhandedly among my closer workmates. Apparently, they saw this as an open invitation to finally say the things they've all been wanting to say for quite some time. Poke fun at the little hippie girl in her dirty coat when it's 85 degrees outside. "But I don't wear it outside! It's freezing in HERE! It's purely functional, don't you see?!" I was met with laughter and further prodding. And it didn't stop.
There was talk of starting a departmental donation to provide me with a new coat. Blazes. They think I'm wearing the thing because I can't buy a new one? I've got four other once-worn jackets in the closet. They just don't suit. The sleeves are not precisely formed to the shape of my arms as they rest on the desk while I type. They're all too long or too stiff or too heavy or too thin. MY jacket is PERFECT.
Well, then. As for the shoes . . . you'd have to understand that I'm a bit of a princess when it comes to my feet. Life's tough, and sometimes keeping pampered feet is my only luxury. Always clean, always lotioned, always looking and feeling as royal as possible (despite my long monkey toes). But I see these young women with corns and calluses all over their toes because they insist on wearing super-high heels or strappy things that dig in to their heels and cut off the circulation, leaving their digits purple and swollen, and I just want to scream, "WHY?!" Why would you choose to walk around with blisters when you could be floating around on a Dr. Scholl's cloud like me?
I don't know. I'm just practical that way, I guess. I choose flats. Plain, black, leather flats. And I wear the same pair until the sole wears off. Who needs more than one pair of work shoes? It's WORK. Not a fashion competition, unless I'm completely oblivious, in which case I'd feign obliviousness anyway because I don't like catty shit like secret clothing wars. Blame it on my modest upbringing. Like I said, I'm practical like that.
I'm not prone to shoe fetishes, as most women. I think fancy kicks are frivolous and stupid. I'd much rather buy a pair for 25 bucks at Target and then spend what I'd save on things like other affordable pairs of shoes for children lost to the system who might never otherwise have a pair. (Or on chocolate. But, we all have our vices, right?). So what if they look like a cross between Michael Jackson's trademark and my grandmother's orthopedic shoes? My feet feel gooood. Always. And I like that. Happy feet make happy people. Sore feet make crabby bitches. It's a fact.
Now, at risk of contradicting everything I've just so wholeheartedly professed, I've been doing some thinking lately. As much as I hate to think physical appearance or choice of attire (outside of being inappropriate) might have ANYTHING to do with one's status in the workplace, I can't help but look around and wonder if my being overlooked for a promotion that winds up going to a less-qualified candidate with a more sophisticated wardrobe could be attributed to my being so content to choose comfort over style. Unenlightened people tend to call this frumpiness. But whatever. I know I'm cute and quirky in my own frumptastic way. The world (and the corporate scene) need people like me, I think. It's the hippie yin to the sheep yang. If there's one thing I'm not, it's a sheep.
Nonetheless, I need to get on in this rat race just like everyone else. Especially with a little mouth to feed, and with bottles of St. Ives to buy for my precious monkey feet. Oh, and chocolate. Always chocolate. It's not getting any cheaper to live. So I decided to step outside my frumpy bubble and try on some new clothes. And by new, I mean stuff that I originally bought for work, but has been hanging in my closet for a year or more because it goes against my modest wallflower ways.
The first thing to go was the jacket. It's been hanging on my bedpost for a month, and I've been suffering through eight hours, day after day, of painful goosebumps and popsicle fingers, cursing myself for the effort. The first day I left it at home, my department asked me if I'd accidentally forgotten it and offered to scrounge up a spare sweatshirt from down on the print floor. The second day, they threw a small celebration for my accomplishment. By now it's the norm, and I've acclimated somewhat to the chilly 65 degrees.
But a couple weeks ago, I traded in my usual solid color long-sleeved tees and wash n' wear work pants for blousy-type tops and synthetic slacks with pressed creases. Pressed creases! I also started washing my hair at night, leaving it long and wavy for my morning commute, instead of the rushed, dripping wet bun I normally show up with. I even went out and bought a couple pairs of heels. Not super-high. Small heels, still conservative by most means. And I've been wearing earrings and wrist cuffs or bangles. Complete experimental transformation using items I already owned, aside from the shoes.
It annoyed me at first. I don't like making an effort for a company that's shown me no real sign of a promising future, despite my loyalty and hard work. There are many reasons for my choice of attire, but one of them has been, admittedly, sticking it to the man. Pay me for my abilities, not for my million dollar wardrobe, you know? But I'll be the first to say, it's kind of nice to catch my reflection in a window and notice that I have a bust and a waist and posterior. Who knew? They were always covered up in loose clothing and an old corduroy jacket.
Yesterday, a co-worker stopped by my desk. He's the macho man of my department. Early thirties, heavily muscled, a bit too tan, and cockier than the worst of men. He'll argue with you on any point, even if he knows he's wrong, because he simply has to be right. Always. He's like my cantankerous older brother who never knows when to shut his arrogant yap.
Needless to say, I was in complete shock when he sauntered over and said, "Heyyy . . . so, I know you're not usually the best at receiving compliments (ouch), but you should know . . . uh . . . what you've been doing lately? This, uh . . . new look? It really suits you." Awkward pause, as he proceeds to turn a brilliant shade of red. "I mean . . . ! Not that you looked bad before, but you know . . . you know! You never used to wear heels, you know? You look really put together. It's good."
Huh.
If I find myself being "suddenly" recognized and rewarded for my countless contributions toward the betterment of this company, not to mention the tens of thousands of hours spent putting up with corporate injustices, I'm going to kick my own ass for the past three and a half years if all it took was a pair of heels.
1 comment:
I liked you when it was the frumpy coat. And then again, I like you even if you dress for success.
I remember my days in the factory with air conditioning that called for longs sleeves and shivering even in July. I kind of miss it sometimes as I pray for my car AC to catch up with the freaking weather.
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