I’ve heard it said that you should dress for the job you want. My philosophy, dress for the job that you don’t want to get fired from. I should note here that I don’t have a strong desire to hold a higher position than I do now, mostly because I’ve learned from observation that those above me have to work longer hours. Honestly, I think 40 hours a week seems excessive. I am currently wasting away the best years of my life and, during the winter, the little sunshine there is, sitting in front of a computer getting awesome at crosswords and improving my German via Duolingo. Do I really want to sit at work doing things I prefer to do at home with a puppy on my lap? No, no I don’t.
Plus they have to work harder. I can’t imagine that right now. Ich bin müde. I don’t know the German for lazy. They might not have one. Germans do not allow laziness. Americans do! I am so thankful that I live in this country. Easy access to pizza, and the lauding of theoretical pursuits.
Also I don’t have the desire to dress for a better job either. My aesthetic is what I like to call chic hobo: it looks exactly how it sounds, like onomatopoeia. To a certain ilk, I’m iconic. They’re usually lined up for the liquor store before the sun is up. To my co-workers I’m a sad street urchin who exists as a manifestation of their fears. You can always sink lower, and when you sink lower than that, you can love rolling about in the filth. That’s the thing about being a real, true garbage person: nothing makes you happier than slinking back to your garbage can and spooning Oscar for the night (Brutus is obviously my Oscar in this case).
However just like a Dickensian urchin, my ragtag look also endears me to people. Everyone pities the poor girl with holes in her clothes. No one wants to fire someone who looks as sad as I do. It’s like finding a three-legged dog and then mocking it by making your dog walk on his two hind legs even though he has four functioning legs. If I dressed professionally, everyone would assume I was some rich BU sorority girl or some snobby BC rich kid or some Harvard…we have a lot of wealthy students in Boston. When people see me, they think ‘the struggle is real.’ If they thought, ‘she’s got the good life,’ they’d come in with their preconceived notions that I’d be entitled and that the struggle isn’t real. Because America is classist. I am lucky that I do not need to face the struggles of wealthy people…wait. No, I do want those struggles. The media confused me for a second. Money is right behind air as a necessity. Goodbye, student loans.
Speaking of student loans and college, the rags look also has that smart, eccentric look about them, like Plato or Obi Wan Kenobi. I like to let people believe that I have eschewed modern materialism and pursue a life dedicated to other shit, like thinking or saving the galaxy with my ability to tap into the Force. I wish that I could. Although odds are I would totally go dark side. I would be the best evil Jedi. Granted I wouldn’t go for world domination (again, I cannot stress how minimal my goals are), I’d probably just talk the guy from KFC into giving me all the buckets of chicken for free. I’d also get an awesome cable plan. Shit, I’d get cable for free and Verizon and I’d make it so people couldn’t use their phones and walk. Also couples couldn’t hold hands walking down the streets. It’s a narrow sidewalk! Decouple and let me pass! The Force is not with you, assholes.
Also if people think that you’re an eccentric intellect or a Jedi, they wouldn’t expect that you’d be interested in things like Excel or remembering the code to your voicemail. You have contemplation to attend to.
But if you have a meeting that seems in any way important and you think maybe you should clean up for it, I’ll put on something pretty that draws attention to my boobs. And I know what you’re thinking, ‘but Becky, although god has graced you with talent, good looks and brains, he did overlook ye olde breasticles. To a baby your chest looks like the Sahara Desert. It leaves men cold and distant, as cold and distant as your love making.’ Sure, that’s true, but there are these things called chicken cutlets. Just go to your local grocery store, buy whatever’s on sale (although sometimes I splurge and go with something organic from Whole Foods, it makes me feel prettier). Stick those suckers in a ziploc – just make sure to cook them first. Gotta avoid salmonella. Bam, you look hot and smell like dinner. It’s the details that people appreciate. Details that you didn’t bring to the presentation that you were supposed to create. ‘But I’m a pretty girl with sexy boobs, I don’t have to know things.’
I once wore pajamas to work. Well, let me clarify: I wore a flannel shirt and black fleece PJ bottoms. They practically looked like real pants. It was really cold outside and I didn’t feel like changing clothes. Yes, they were PJs that I had slept in the night before.
Wow, sometimes I have moments where I can start to see myself the way others see me and its like…I could really eat a burger or two. Near self-awareness makes a girl hungry.
So when you’re walking down the street and you find a street rat, nibbling on a burger wrapped in wax paper with another tucked away in her pocket, which will soon find its way into her thin-lipped mouth and chewed by her jacked teeth, as she stares longingly into the KFC window like Audrey once gazed into Tiffany’s, that’s me and I’m successful. You don’t need a suit, just a sweater high school, that Jordan Catalano would have discarded, and a great sense of self and nice chicken boobs.
May the Force be with you.