Summer office attire pisses me off.
Rule number one: If your arms can double as thighs, you should have no legal right to wear sleeveless shirts. If you have vision that is sufficient enough to operate a vehicle, then your sight should be clear enough to recognize that sleeveless, button-up shirts are absurd and should not be worn. In fact, they should not be manufactured. 1985 called, they want their sleeveless, button-up shirts back…all of them.
Rule number two: No flip flops. Feet are gross and yours are no exception. I don’t want to look at your gangly toes when I pass you in the hallway and I don’t need to smell your feet during a meeting. Plus, I have my own bunions to worry about. I don’t need yours in my face when I’m waiting to use the copier. And flip flops on men? Completely deplorable. The only articles of clothing that are acceptable on both sexes are jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps. If you’re a guy and you wear flip flops, you may as well get a bowl haircut…you have no fashion sense. You deserve to be dateless on every national holiday.
I work in a semi-professional office. I use the term “semi” because I’ve seen things at work that could make the People of Wal-Mart look like they’re at a black tie event. For this reason I tend to stay at my desk all day. I venture out for food, water, and to use the shitter. It never ceases to amaze me the crazy things I see during my brief moments outside of my sweet, neutral-toned, cubicle walls.
Take today, for example. If I had a nickel for every burly woman I saw wearing a tank top, I could’ve called off work and not even used a vacation day. One woman was wearing a sleeveless, button-up shirt, and I had a clear view of her beige bra through the arm hole. Well, I assume it was beige, and not a white bra that just gave up. It was one of those industrial bras, the kinds with the super wide straps and 4 clasps in the back…the 6-string bass guitar of bras, if you will. It was almost like seeing the Loch Ness Monster, without the coolness and excited picture-taking.
Don’t misunderstand me. I am not, by ANY stretch of the imagination, a fashionista. I have 3 basic rules to my style: 1. It’s gotta be clean, 2. Don’t let the ass hang out, and 3. Never try matching blacks. Maybe that’s why I don’t understand 90% of what I see, like kids wearing pajamas in public (when did the universal nightmare become socially acceptable?) and too-skinny girls who probably cut themselves, wearing knitted scarves indoors. When has anyone ever commented on how chilly their neck was? It’s a senseless fashion from every angle. If I walked around wearing only earmuffs, people would think I looked stupid. Why? Because I WOULD.
I’m not usually this angry. I blame it on a book I’m reading. It’s a Jodi Picoult novel, and holy shit, she’s one of those slit-your-wrists writers. But she’s clever – she lures you in with false sense of, “This is quirky but interesting,” and then right when you’ve invested too much to turn back (somewhere around Chapter 4), her style morphs into that of a sad, anemic, my-uncle-raped-me-when-I-was-12, tortured 19 year old song writer. The only problem with that, is it only works for 19 year old song writers, not pre-menopausal women who should’ve used their Liberal Arts degree for a better purpose, like writing blogs and working for The Man (ooo, burn on me, I’m a clever one).
I may be angry on the outside, but I’m happy on the inside. My vacation starts in approximately 25 hours, and I can’t wait! I’m tagging along on my boyfriend’s family vacation, and I am fairly certain it will be blog worthy. And if not, I’ll just lie my face off when I blog about it.
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