It’s no news that the office is not a runway. Since my entrance into the “real world,” I’ve been coping with the fact that in addition to my youth, social life, and carefree nature, I have also been forced to put the free reign of my own wardrobe behind me. I always envisioned myself coming into work every day in cute dresses and pencil skirts, being complimented on my outfits by all the girls in my office and secretly noticed by all the guys. I’d have money and could buy the designer labels I pined over in college, guilt-free. . I also always envisioned Benny Rodriguez had come up with a way to stay 14 forever, turn his back on the sandlot, and fall madly in love with me.
As it turns out, of the 56 employees in my office, I like exactly two of them. One is a 32-year-old married woman who is desperately trying to live vicariously through the life I don’t have, and the other is the janitor. To say that the only reason I even shower before work is because I have to (and because I occasionally have lunch among civilization), would be an understatement. My dreams of being voted “best dressed” in the office superlatives, which I was certain would be a thing, were crushed when I realized I was thrown among people I would never, ever care to impress. I hate that I have to buy my clothes specifically for people who will never notice them, and I resent both my employer and the dress code, because my “work clothes” have become a virus in my closet slowly growing and taking over the cute, colorful outfits of my past.
Still, I think the whole sneakers-with-a-dress thing is a bit much. I get that the metro, subway, or whatever other public transportation you have to take, can certainly be a struggle, and I suppose your work shoes aren’t necessarily your most comfortable, but you know what else isn’t comfortable? Being pressed up against a high school freshman on his way to school in a way that you are pretty sure is illegal in all 50 states, or nearly falling onto a homeless man who keeps laughing at the jokes you can’t decipher because of his crack habit, both of which happen pretty regularly on an average commute. At what point, though, have you surrendered all cognizance of your participation in the social world in exchange for 30 slightly more comfortable minutes, during which you think it’s okay to go out in public looking like a corporate bag lady? By wearing those shoes, you’re telling the world “forget my husband, even I don’t want to fuck me.” Sneakers should really only be worn at the gym, which is exactly why I haven’t seen mine in upwards of three months. What’s worse than the fact that you’ve essentially just given up at this point, is that you don’t care about the rest of the world, but you are going to change into some “practical” (heinous) shoe before you get to work, so you can impress the people who really matter to you: your co-workers!
I pray the day never comes when I realize my co-workers have become my only source of meaningful human interaction, because that is a sad, sad, Chinese-food-filled existence.
With that said, I think I’m going to be stopping by Lady Footlocker on my way home from work today. Should be making a pretty decent investment.