The other day I was thinking that I am going to have to do a good job of documenting the past year as well as this upcoming year. Because it is glaringly apparent that I need to know that one day I will laugh about all of this. Dear sweet baby Jesus, please tell me that one day I will laugh about all of this.
While I will soon delight you with some tales of the bizarre town we just moved to, right now I'd like to tell you about a job I used to have. I am simply going to call this job the government job. I'd like not to rat out a certain federal government agency so mums the word on the location and identity of said government job. Although anyone who knows me knows exactly where and what I am talking about. But please zip your lips.
My friends from the government job and I always said we should have written a book about our experience. We should have documented everything because there is no friggin' way that anyone will believe that we actually worked with the type of people that we worked with. I can regale you with plenty of things that I witnessed my co-workers saying - why yes, Hong Kong really is in China, Puerto Rico is considered American soil, Canada is an entirely different country and no, for the 10th time the abbreviation for Alaska is not AL - but I'll just focus on the clothing that people wore. Into the office. And no, I ain't makin' this stuff up.
Here are some wardrobe highlights from my years at the government job.
- Clear plastic stiletto boots
- Drawstring sweat pants
- A string of pearls worn with an oversized thermal henley t-shirt
- Red pleather boots that laced up the side
- A lace top worn without a camisole underneath
- Pink hair
- A Bob Marley t-shirt (complete with Bob smoking a doobie)
The greatest part of all of this is that my supervisor didn't have a talk to the group regarding dress code until I started wearing jeans on Fridays. Casual Fridays were not in our dress code, but I figured if Bob Marley could make an appearance then so could my Gap Long and Leans. My friends and I called my jeans-wearing a REVOLUTION. Well, my revolution lasted two weeks. Then my supervisor (of the pearls and thermal shirt) decided to have a talk with the group. Everyone shaped up for 3 weeks or so and then hooded sweatshirts and flip flops started making their way back into the office. By then I had given up on my revolution.
As ridiculous and mundane as that job was, there is something the say for the hilarity of it all. Not everyone can say that they worked in an office where pleather is an accepted fabric, can they? Unless you are a hooker. Oh excuse me Dad, you taught me that the proper term is lady of the evening. I think bad jobs are a right of passage. It was a sad day when I left that job. I knew that never again would I feel like a rocket scientist with a supermodel's wardrobe.
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