I have a job that from time to time requires that I dress "professionally." Actually, it requires it every day, but I just wait until it's do or die before I really take the plunge. So every now and then I find myself in a suit with weird undergarments made of string and wire. And I cannot say that without also saying: Screw trying to avoid the VPL. Screw trying to create boobs. I just want some soft loose cotton. I want granny panties.
In my world, nobody dresses "professionally." Nobody wears suits, unless they want to (and really, who would?) In my world I wear organic hemp flowy pants anywhere I want. And nobody wrinkles their nose and says, "is somebody wearing patchouli?"
Unfortunately, the world has not started to rotate on my terms yet, so sometimes I'm in a suit, patchouli-less. And for some ungodly reason, my employers seem to find it less than suitable to wear Birkenstocks with business suits. I cannot figure this out.
Last week was one of those do or die, "professional-dress" occasions. My work hosted a legislative luncheon. No hemp pants allowed. I asked. Twice.
But I do really love the sophisticated sound of "legislative luncheon." So I figure, what the hell. I go into the day with lackluster gusto. I even put my hair into some sort of weirdly severe tight bun thing that made me look like a newborn alien.
So there we are, my severe alien bun and I, attempting to look professional by holding a clip board and pretending that this means I'm doing something important. I'm wobbling around in my heels with the open toes, which are really not appropriate for the occasion but are my only option because Bella recently ate my only closed toed black heels.
To make my open toed heels even more appropriate, I'm sporting chipped red nail polish and toenails that should have been trimmed a week ago. And I have a bunch of dirt rimming each nail because I stomp around in my garden in those beloved Birks of mine.
Somehow, and it's probably because of my bulging muscles, I get myself nominated for the job of lugging in hundreds of bottles of water, all neatly vacuum packed together. So I'm kind of tip toeing up and down two flights of stairs holding a hundred pounds of water and trying not to break an ankle or tibia or anything, and all of a sudden the little latch thingy on my oh-so-professional suit pants pops! open. And now my pants want to fall off.
What I've failed to mention thus far is that in addition to my fantastic choice of shoes, I'm also wearing the only suit pants I own, which happen to be in a bit of a rough patch themselves. They're about three inches too long because I've convinced myself that you have to be filthy rich to go to a tailor. They're also made of rayon or some other plasticy fabric that's really only meant to hold up through the first three washings. Let me tell you that a year into it, these pants have seen better days.
I bought them in the juniors section of Filenes which means they're really only pseudo-suit pants. They're the type with the really low waist and extra tight rump-al area. In college we used to call these "fuck-me" pants and they were mainly worn by sorority sisters named Jenna with ridiculously small bums. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a deal. Even if it means looking like I'm the one for sale, apparently. These pants are made for dropping. What they're not meant for is twenty-somethings hosting legislative luncheons. Of that I'm positive.
But I digress.
So I'm an hour into the prep for this luncheon and my pants have declared mutiny. The top latch hook thing is just gone. Pants are sort of like dominoes. Once the top latch has nothing to hook to, the bottom latch basically says screw it. Let in the wind. And once the bottom latch calls it a day, the zipper really doesn't feel like cooperating either. Adding a little more adventure is the fact that I don't have one of those ridiculously small sorority sister bums, and my more realistically sized bottom is threatening to bust through any second.
There I was, in a room full of 200 legislators. Every three minute my hands are flying to my crotch and attempting to zip and latch at warp speed. I can only imagine the dinner conversations that night about the odd alien girl with the clipboard and an obsessive crotch habit.
So today I declare mutiny myself. I go into the office for a meeting with our CEO in my organic hemp skirt and tights. I wear my clunky hippy shoes. Pigtails, no alien bun.
Apparently, I'm up for a promotion. Rock on, hemp.