When I first graduated from University and got my first job (not counting the cat dungeon I had a short stint of getting paid to email friends employment at a “film company” overrun by cats), I was thrilled to be able to dress up for work. I went shopping with my partner and moaned as she forced me to try things on. But I was secretly happy about wearing pants that weren’t jeans and shirts that needed ironing.
What was I thinking?!
Fast forward a few years and now I’m working at a not-for-profit and most days, I think my coworkers should consider themselves lucky that I don’t just roll out of bed and show up to work in my jammies. But even I have standards, folks. I usually wear clothing without stains, that is less than 10 years old and (generally) presentable. But not today. As I do every Wednesday, I woke up thinking today was Friday. Upon my discovery that I was wrong once again, I lurched out of bed, showered groggily and threw on the closest pair of pants I could find.
If the chilly draft I’d felt and the leers from old men on the subway weren’t enough, it was the once-over and “hairs on the back of your nape standing up” glare from the President of the organization that clued me into the fact that my jeans, in fact, had a giant, gaping hole in the thigh. And not 5 minutes later, my boss approached me. In an unusually congenial mood she quipped, “Nice jeans!”. Naïve me thought – for a brief split second – that she was referring to my genes. Friends, I was almost flattered! And then I remembered, my jeans had a hole the size of the giant sinkhole in Guatemala on them.
The best part about wearing these jeans, though, was the comment I got from a male coworker at a staff party today. “I couldn’t help but notice your hole,” he stated rather loudly. Upon hearing this, one of my coworkers – who hadn’t yet had the horror of seeing my shockingly white thigh showing itself – whipped her head around faster than that little girl in “The Exorcist” and looked like a deer caught in headlights. It was priceless –she thought he was hitting on me.
I won’t ever wear these jeans to work again. Unless they’re the closest pair of pants within my reach next Friday Wednesday.