Sadly, I cannot dress for work like this. (via pinterest)How does anyone in the world even get dressed?
Rather, how does anybody get dressed for work?
When I got hired here, I found it difficult to get purchase on this whole business-casual deal. My understanding of looking presentable was stranded somewhere between the plaid bows on church dresses of my youth, the sparkly clothes of boozey New Year's bashes in squalid apartments, and later, weddings in echo-y social halls. Suddenly I needed a few weeks' worth of grown-up but still youthful clothes and my boots and tattered band t-shirts weren't really going to cut it. I didn't have much to go on, though - how to dress to be taken seriously but also like your(unserious)self?
Also, there is the issue of tattoos. For some, a tattoo is an intimate talisman sealed to a discrete area of the body. For me, it's a meaningful adornment, like a piece of heirloom jewelry, not something to be concealed. Except, of course, at your office job! The prescription: boatnecks, crew necks, oxfords, some mandarin collars. These kinds of garments are not awful in concept but in their execution on my figure they are, well, matronly.
Most of my lady friends don't do the office job thing, or work in creative or informal fields where the rules are different. My one friend who has a full sleeve is an attorney, so while she is stuck
with long sleeves to her wrist every day all year, she is petite and looks smart in a lawyer-y blazer over a gauzy low-cut blouse.
So here's my impression of ohh all women ever: You know I'd just really like to have fewer, but like, better quality clothes. In keeping with that spirit (hey I'm not immune), I caught some tailored linen dresses on sale last week online and bought 'em in a few different colors. They have interesting details and the faded weave of the linen makes the material look vintage - most importantly, they are crew necked without being school-marm.
And sometimes, you know, I just miss the mark completely. A dopey male coworker made some comment about my black crocheted tights earlier this week, which I indignantly dismissed in my head. I mean, I'd bought them at Target, not a lingerie store.
That afternoon, we're driving home from work together, and Nick reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh. "Oh sweet, slutty tights!"