Playing Footsie

Thank God for offices with a Casual Attire dress code. Most places are too afraid to do that. Most employers have such a lack of confidence in their employees that they demand a more formal appearance, expecting that most people will fall woefully below the bar. If they lower the bar, it would be fashion anarchy. Tube tops. Daisy Dukes. Flip flops. Heaving cleavage. Muffin tops spilling out over the waistbands of too-tight jeans matched with belly shirts worn by people who have no business owning belly shirts, given the conditions of their bellies.

But my new employer has no such reservations. One of my Chiefs interviewed me in jeans. They were snazzy jeans he no doubt picked up on Rodeo but jeans nonetheless. These folks are given credit for knowing how to walk around in public and rarely disappoint. Don't get me wrong, most people are not forging new standards of fashion and churning out the hype on grooming, but everyone is generally neat and clean, reasonably pressed, matching and wearing shoes that were purchased in the current decade. (There is that one chick who is always dressed for a yoga class, but at least she rocks the look instead of looking like the yoga pants were the only ones she could manage to yank across her ass without splitting.) Yes, our only rules for dress code are about flip flops and ripped jeans. As in "Don't wear them." Pretty easy. My work wardrobe has expanded exponentially with that little bit of clarification. Time to burn the suits.

but even so, on Day 2, with my left foot now looking alarmingly like a bone-in spiral cut glazed ham, I stand in the gaping yaw of my closet and stare blankly and defeatedly at the tonnage of clothing. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, leaps into my arms begging to be worn.

I hobble to the window to survey the weather. It is cloudy and gray and a little bit chilly. Very helpful. We'll rule out the sleeveless items. Next!

I start with shoes. Anything that won't send my nerve endings into a tailspin is too casual. Except perhaps the tragic mules I wore to lunch the week before. Ugh. I had hoped to establish myself as an office fashion icon, not a matronly, frowzy, elastic waist-banded Mom Jean owner. How will anyone know I am a snappy dresser if they avert their eyes from this day forward because I disappointed on Day 2. Day 2! I didn't even keep up the momentum for a week!

But I have no choice. I must build yet another outfit around Les Chaussures Horrible. Damn it.

Let's continue the process of elimination with the pants. Cross anything that needs ironing off the list. I can't walk ALL THE WAY OVER THERE to iron anything. The ironing board is on the opposite corner of the house. I am not crossing the Prime Meridian until my foot shrivels up and falls off.

Anything that with a length or color that does not align with the tragic footwear is out. I have exactly 2 pair.

Onto blouses and sweaters. Eliminating those that need ironing once again, and those that don't match with the scant selection of pants, proves to be quite effective at whittling things down to a manageable selection. Exactly 4.

One I hate.
One needs a particular undergarment that is currently drying on the line in the cellar.
One has a very dangly, loose button that will surely fall off as soon as I step into the elevator where it will conveniently roll down the shaft.

I guess I am a Woman in Black. Black wool turtleneck and black slacks and plain black shoes. All I need is a wimple and a big, giant, iron crucifix for around my neck. I am The Limping Nun.

Slowly, slowly, slowly I get the kids to the car and off to school. Drive with my good foot to work. Limp into the building. Fire up my laptop at my desk. Turn my trash can over and take off my left shoe. I prop the ham up on the can. My phone dings.

Charlotte.

What is going on with your foot?