As I was doing my usual, “Oh, yeah. It’s 4:30. Guess I should shove my lunch in the microwave,” I realized that I probably couldn’t tell the difference between eating the Lean Cuisine or the box it came in.
And I suppose it defeats the purpose to eat said Lean Cuisine and make a subsequent trip to the vending machine for something a little more flavorful. And filling. 😉
Y’all know I carry my girly products in my bra because I rarely wear pockets. (Blazers are to be left on the back of one’s chair, damn it.) So today I shoved some supplies (I didn’t need them — it was a “just in case” scenario) in the ol’ boulder-holder, per the usual.
Well, I was washing my hands when I saw said items THROUGH my light-pink dress shirt. I’d sort of stuck them between the girls instead of in a cupholder (ha!) and BOY were those bitches visible. I skulked back to my desk holding my ID card directly over that area of my chest until I got back to my desk. Yoy.
It’s a good thing I work with a department full of men, because I know better than to tell them about it. But y’all are captive to this kind of shit. Aren’t you lucky!!!
I grouse about having to be all-business-attire, all-the-time (especially when we have those 12-hours-on-our-feet days, which are around the corner again). Yet the people who clean my apartment building are always in skirts and sweaters and otherwise-dressy clothes — by their own choice. Bizarre.
One would think that if they could wear a nice pair of comfy cotton jeans and some non-chafing shoes, they would. Not that I don’t love dressing up, but I prefer to do it for myself and not because someone’s going to be mad at me if I don’t. I think jeans and heels are lovely together and would wear them seven days a week of my own accord. But insisting that one stuff one’s ass into pantyhose and then into a binding suit and then into three-inch heels every day for the rest of her life is downright cruel.
Speaking of, time to go choose an outfit to hate for the next 10 hours. …