In the midst of my "black pant freakout" yesterday, I found myself unable to come up with a Plan B wardrobe choice - so I groped through skirts and pretty much pulled one out at random. Cute skirt - black cotton, tiered, with clusters of Mexican-y flowers embroidered here and there (like a Mexican dress or blouse, if a Mexican dress or blouse had reassignment surgery and became a skirt). I've never 100% liked it, though, because the top tier pooches a little bit - not unlike the top of a strapless dress. Thus, the brainstorm - why not wear the skirt as a dress? Hike it up under the arms and, boom, a flirty cotton number, with boobs occupying the poochy part. I've heard of convertible dress/skirt combos, but does the manufacturer really have to label it as such for the concept to work?
So I tried it and generally liked the effect - but it was a little too A-line for my taste, so I threw on a belt with a funky silver-and-carnelian buckle to pull the red out of the embroidery. Then it occurs to me that I'm actually on the way to work . . . and I'm basically in a tube top. So I throw a jacket over it and put on a necklace to coordinate with the buckle and some heeled sandals. (In retrospect, I totally should have gone with cowboy boots . . . perhaps the Dixie Chicks are in need of extras for a video? Do they even record anymore? But I digress - as usual.)
I leave the house feeling pretty pleased with myself - particularly as I am en route to the dentist before going to the office, and the dress is totally comfy and dentist-chair appropriate. Yeah, a couple of problems with that:
(1) It was a very windy day in Fort Worth, Texas, and Flirty Skirt Dress was feeling particularly flirty and kept trying to expose my naughty bits.
(2) The dentist's office was closed due to an electrical issue (and they couldn't call people, due to their computers requiring electricity, and everyone's data being, evidently, electronic), so I walked to and from the dentist's office - fighting Flirty Skirt Dress the whole way - for no particularly good reason. And, because I had no other place to go, I got into work painfully early, result being that I would be running around the office in a borderline work-inappropriate skirt/dress for several more hours than originally contemplated.
I began to feel very self-conscious about Flirty Skirt Dress, so I sent out an e-mail to all:
"RE: Yes, I realize that I am dressed like a Joe T. Garcia's waitress
I have a thing right after work, and I was supposed to be in the dentist’s chair for a couple of hours this morning (but they cancelled), so I dressed for comfort as well as theme. Please do not ask me to top off your margarita."
Of course, this compelled everyone to come to my office to check out my get-up. My more astute colleagues pointed out that Joe T. Garcia's waitresses actually wear polo shirts and khakis. One inquired as to the location of my apron and ticket pad. Another ignored my request and asked for a fresh margarita. (Honey, if I had one on me, do you think I would share?)
So, it's lunch, and I'm eating in the breakroom, and one of my law partners comes in to get something out of the fridge and just . . . looks . . . at me and says, "It's not . . . that . . . waitress-y. I was expecting something . . . else . . . something more." His overall attitude is defeated. Apparently my e-mail created some unrealistic expectations.
Now it's Wednesday, and I'm eating in the breakroom again (two days in a row, woo hoo! I'll have the national debt retired by November with all of the money that I'm saving). I brown-bagged gazpacho, in honor of "Take Your Cold, Vegetable-Based Soup to Work Day," which is not actually a holiday, but, darn it, it ought to be. (And technically I did not brown-bag the gazpacho, as that would be quite messy. I put it in Tupperware - well, not Tupperware with a capital "T," but the functional equivalent, as manufactured by our friends at IKEA.) It occurs to me that I am wearing a brand new, bright yellow sweater jacket-thingy, and the chances of me spilling gazpacho on the sweater are 100%. I do not particularly want a mottled yellow-and-orange sweater. So I remove it.
The thing about our office is, it's cold. We're talking Arctic Circle cold - to the point that people are forced to wear Polar Fleece, 365 days a year. (Occasionally they forget and wear it out into the July or August heat, which is pretty dang funny.) Another thing about our office - one of my other law partners started giving us branded items for Christmas a few years back, after he discovered that if you doodle the firm's "monogram" a certain way and turn it on its side, it creates a little caricature that could represent a couple of different people in our office. So a client who has a marketing and specialties business embroiders this unofficial logo on a different item for us every year. Having been here since the inception, I have two jackets, a ski hat, an ear gaiter, a scarf, fleece gloves (yeah, can you tell this guy likes skiing?) and a blanket with our "logo" on them. Long story short, most people have chosen to keep their logo-ed jackets and blankets at the office, so - while people wearing Polar Fleece in the summer is pretty ridiculous - people wearing identical Polar Fleece with goofy doodles on them is "amps on eleven."
Back to the breakroom. The breakroom is the coldest part of our office, and today it is somehow colder than usual. I am sitting between two coworkers in their firm-requisitioned doodle jackets, and I am eating very cold soup in a very cold room, wearing a black Lycra-ish tank top.
You're expecting to see "headlights" in the next sentence, aren't you? No, we're not talking about that kind of wardrobe malfunction. This is a family blog, people, and I wear good-quality foundation garments.
But I do look like an idiot. I'm covered in goosebumps, my teeth are chattering, and I'm flanked by people bundled up like Inuits, making me look that much more underdressed (and stupid) by comparison.
Same partner comes in . . . stops . . . and just looks at me with this bemused expression that I took to mean, "Explain . . . again."
"Um, I'm eating gazpacho. And I'm wearing a yellow sweater. Actually, right now I'm not wearing a yellow sweater, on account of the gazpacho. Because I'm afraid of spillage. But as soon as I finish my soup, I'll get re-dressed."
Still looking bemused, he shakes his head, laughs and walks out. I don't think he even got what he came into the breakroom for.
Hmm . . . what to wear tomorrow?