Ya’ll, I think I may be the office D-bag. Granted, there’s less than 10 of us, but still.
The head honcho has been out of the office for a while. While HH is out, we are allowed to dress casually. Like jeans and tennis shoes. While I am not sure that velour sweat pants with the word “JUICY” emblazoned on the arse would truly be OK, I’m hoping someone will try that.
For the first few days, I tore out of bed, excited to put on my jeans to go to work. The casual dress thing is supposed to be a perk. The only thing is that I hate working in jeans. Jeans make me feel like a student. Or a blogger. Or a teenager. I tried to make it work by wearing my fancy jeans– the only pair I did NOT buy at Costco. But it didn’t feel right. I was supposed to be producing adult, serious work, but I couldn’t do it in my jeans.
Meanwhile, the rest of my colleagues wear soft hoodies, their legs comfortably encased in soft denim or worn corduroy, and I am all dressed up. Slacks. Button-down shirts. Cardigans. Mary Janes.
I couldn’t do the work in clothes I just spent two years wearing at the park, the grocery store, and the pediatrician’s office. Those are my mom clothes, and I’m not here to mother anyone.
Mentally, I have to dress the part.
“You know HH is still away, right?” they said when they saw me all decked out in my LOFT separates.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying to act like it was perfectly normal to wear black slacks and pearls around a group of people whose fanciest accessory is a scrunchie.
I remember making fun of young (male) associates at my previous law firm who insisted on wearing ties their first year. They were going for authoritative. Or serious. But to us more senior associates, they looked stuffy and pretentious. Like D-bags.
Now, I’m that D-bag.
But I still can’t do the casual thing. Today I am wearing a dress with panty hose. I tried to go Mark Zuckerberg’s route, but I’m not in the Silicon Valley. I’m smack in the Midwest flailing around in an identity crisis (mom? lawyer? writer? who the frock am I?) and I desperately need the sartorial markers that say, “Yes, I am at work now” when I have on my heels. When I am wearing my jeans, my clothes remind me, “You’re home! Now little people will blow their noses on you.”
So, really, I am not a D-bag, I am just a mom who recently returned to the great American workforce.