Monday, June 11, 2012

A new low, outfit-wise

 
 
I've always been of the "I wear what I like even if it's not fashionable" type, much to my mother's dismay. I'd like to say it's because I'm edgy and a fashion maverick, but really it's because I'm lazy. 
 
But at least in the past I dressed according to a set of standards, even if it was just the low standards I created for myself. I still have some standards, most of which I adhere to generally, for the most part, more or less.  But the list of rules I feel compelled to follow is becoming shorter all the time.  The "must follow" rules are pretty much just "must have on actual clothes" and "items in outfit don't have to technically 'match' but must not actually clash." That's about it. 
 
Other than that, I'm pretty flexible. "Clothes should be wrinkle-free" has become "clothes should have no more wrinkles than you could reasonably explain away as having resulted from your drive into work." "Don't wear clothes with stains" has become "don't wear clothes with stains, unless it's not that noticeable and you don't discover the stain until you're about to leave the house for work, in which case it's ok if you can get away with pretending that it's from spilling coffee on yourself after you got to work." That one's pretty easy seeing as how I do actually spill coffee on myself on a sadly regular basis.

As you can see, I'm slowly turning into a slob. I do want to be clear that it's not that I don't like looking fashionable and professional. I do.  I love that feeling you get when you're wearing a killer outfit.  It's just that most of the time, laziness trumps the desire to look good. And the older I get, the less I care about being fashionable, anyway. It becomes more something that I like in theory but not in practice, like salsa dancing or saunas.

Today, my camisole kept coming untucked from my pants, so at some point mid-morning I just tucked it right into the waistband of my underwear. Yep. I did that.

My standards for proper attire has always heretofore included the rule that one does not tuck one's clothing into one's underpants.  In that second between the moment when I tucked in my camisole and the moment when I pulled my (cute) shirt down, I briefly asked myself why I had suddenly broken one of my basic rules and decided this was an acceptable course of behavior.  Was it because I had somehow aged 30 years on my last birthday without noticing it?  
 
And then I decided that I just didn't care. And that's how you know you've reached A Certain Age. You really don't care about stuff like that anymore. Will people think it's weird? Don't care. Is this something you should keep to yourself? Don't care. You care so little that it doesn't cross you mind to consider whether you ought to care.  Heck, I already wear socks with my soccer sandals when I check the mail. Do people look at me strangely? I mean, other than RR?  I don't know. I haven't noticed because I don't care.

I do care, however, that I've lost a few pounds and now none of my pants fit.  I don't like ill-fitting pants.  And the loose pants cause a problem at work because it means that my pants hang low (hence today's camisole untucking), which leads to unintended flashing of my underwear or my abs, neither of which I care about.  But that can lead to making male coworkers uncomfortable, which I do care about.  And honestly, I don't want my superiors at work thinking that I can't figure out how to dress like a lawyer.  Although if they think I can't afford to dress like a lawyer and want to help me out there, I would not object.

Also, if pants hang too low, they scrape the ground when I wear flats, and I hate that. I get increasingly angry with every step. Step-scrape. Step-scrape. Step-scrape. Step-scrape. Step-scrape. Scraaape. Scraape. Scraaape. Scraaape. Scraaaaaape. By the time I've walked from the parking garage to my office, I've gone from the "this is mildly irritating" stage to the "blinding rage" stage and on to the "go ahead somebody, try to make small talk in the elevator, I dare you" stage. That is not a good stage to occupy in the best of circumstances, but certainly not when you routinely ride in an elevator with attorneys, or judges, or armed law enforcement officers. And considering that I often don't have any coffee or breakfast until I get to the office, I'm a ticking time bomb by the time I walk in the office door. Not a good way to start the day.

[And here I feel like I should point out that I'm actually very easy to get along with at work--just ask my coworkers. I just have a little Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde thing going on when deprived of coffee and food.]

I would just buy new pants, but then I have to (1) leave my house, (2) deal with salespeople, (3) try on clothes, and (4) spend money, all of which I dislike.  And it's not like I won't at some point in the near future eat an entire of jar of peanut butter in one weekend, causing me to pack those pounds back on again.  Peanut butter, I cannot reseest you.
So for now, I'm going with the saggy pants look--and, apparently, the undergarments-tucked-into-each-other look.  I'm guessing not for long, though, because I can feel that don't-care-if-you-can-see-my-bra stage of not caring is just around the corner. So good for you coworkers, you've got that to look forward to. But when I get to the checking-the-mail-in-my-bathrobe stage, please, someone, stage an intervention.

P.s. I am working on several posts about my Korea trip, but very slowly. Try to contain your excitement until then.

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