After months of drought, the rain finally came. It started in the form of fury with Friday’s thunderstorm, flooding cities in various areas and continued on the next day to relieve the long suppressed agony. To our pleasant surprise, it wept more steadily yesterday till nightfall. I went to bed with windows open and the sweetest, most primitive music on earth, the sound of the raindrops.
As we marvel the long overdue miracle from heaven, another lesser form of miracle took place on earth this morning: I put on my girly outfit, a sweater and a skirt, to come to work. Two years and three months of my professional life, I have been anything but professional in the wardrobe department. To be fair, I did start out proper: blouse and slacks. Overtime in observing other “less formal” colleagues I started “slacking” off and sneaking in more and more “casual Friday” spirit on non-Fridays until finally the Friday spirit took over EVERY DAY.
In my defense, the nature of my job position does not require formal wear or dress code. In addition, the office has not been accommodating in its temperature control. It is always so cold that I end up with a sweatshirt and a blanket regardless of what I wear. My coworkers of the same sex, however, never seem to be afflicted by the same hostile condition and exhibit much more exciting spirit in both colors and varieties: dresses, skirts, heels, sandals and all that fixings. Unfortunately it failed to shame my instinct of survival and yes my contrarian nature in that “different” is good, especially when “different” means comfort and less effort. As any fallen creature, still, I have the full capacity of being vain in every way, and that includes my jeans and T-shirt, which are carefully selected every day. Such effort behind my plain yet deliberate choice achieves barely to satisfy my own vanity. The truth is: most people don’t really pay attention to a middle aged, married coworker like me.
So why skirt on an overcast, sad Monday after all this time? Impulse, curiosity or vanity? I don’t really know. What matters is that I did it: put on the outfit laid on the chair the night before, walked out of the house without returning to change and drove off to my expedition. At 4:10 I sat alone in my cubicle, my white sweater and red skirt loud and clear in plain view. I was thinking brave and feeling exactly the opposite with every ticking minute. 5:10 I had my first audition when I walked over to talk to the 2nd arrival of the day. It was met with no reaction at all. 5:30 was my 2nd face-on – still nothing. And the pattern continued on till finally my 28-year-old female coworker favored me with her giggles, which turned out to be the one and only attention for my major fashion undertake in 2+ years.
On top of my bewilderment, I was once again staring at another episode of life’s irony, which seems to have repeated too often to be surprised. My daring attempt to deviate from my usual fashion course turned out to be nothing worth noting or commended as I had anticipated. I thought of another irony that had just happened on Sunday at church when I made exactly the opposite choice, NOT to stray from my comfort zone, as we were all called up to parade to the front to pray together. Being the frozen chosen with a phobia of any public exhibition, I obstinately stood the ground for fear of violating my principle and nature as a good Presbyterian would do even at a Baptist church. Unfortunately, this safe choice rendered me anything but safe since I was miserably exposed standing there all by myself in trying to be myself. This unexpected miscalculation made me wonder if I should have done it otherwise and thus no eye brows would have raised and I be spared from the excruciating public display. Being singled out from everyone else turned out to be more strenuous than blending in. Maybe conformity is the comfort zone in that it can be a mean of camouflage, leading to an opportune and much needed safety?
The skirt experiment may have been a somewhat disillusion for my vanity’s sake but none the less a profitable revelation at the end. Sometimes, it is easier not to be you outside than to be you inside.
As we marvel the long overdue miracle from heaven, another lesser form of miracle took place on earth this morning: I put on my girly outfit, a sweater and a skirt, to come to work. Two years and three months of my professional life, I have been anything but professional in the wardrobe department. To be fair, I did start out proper: blouse and slacks. Overtime in observing other “less formal” colleagues I started “slacking” off and sneaking in more and more “casual Friday” spirit on non-Fridays until finally the Friday spirit took over EVERY DAY.
In my defense, the nature of my job position does not require formal wear or dress code. In addition, the office has not been accommodating in its temperature control. It is always so cold that I end up with a sweatshirt and a blanket regardless of what I wear. My coworkers of the same sex, however, never seem to be afflicted by the same hostile condition and exhibit much more exciting spirit in both colors and varieties: dresses, skirts, heels, sandals and all that fixings. Unfortunately it failed to shame my instinct of survival and yes my contrarian nature in that “different” is good, especially when “different” means comfort and less effort. As any fallen creature, still, I have the full capacity of being vain in every way, and that includes my jeans and T-shirt, which are carefully selected every day. Such effort behind my plain yet deliberate choice achieves barely to satisfy my own vanity. The truth is: most people don’t really pay attention to a middle aged, married coworker like me.
So why skirt on an overcast, sad Monday after all this time? Impulse, curiosity or vanity? I don’t really know. What matters is that I did it: put on the outfit laid on the chair the night before, walked out of the house without returning to change and drove off to my expedition. At 4:10 I sat alone in my cubicle, my white sweater and red skirt loud and clear in plain view. I was thinking brave and feeling exactly the opposite with every ticking minute. 5:10 I had my first audition when I walked over to talk to the 2nd arrival of the day. It was met with no reaction at all. 5:30 was my 2nd face-on – still nothing. And the pattern continued on till finally my 28-year-old female coworker favored me with her giggles, which turned out to be the one and only attention for my major fashion undertake in 2+ years.
On top of my bewilderment, I was once again staring at another episode of life’s irony, which seems to have repeated too often to be surprised. My daring attempt to deviate from my usual fashion course turned out to be nothing worth noting or commended as I had anticipated. I thought of another irony that had just happened on Sunday at church when I made exactly the opposite choice, NOT to stray from my comfort zone, as we were all called up to parade to the front to pray together. Being the frozen chosen with a phobia of any public exhibition, I obstinately stood the ground for fear of violating my principle and nature as a good Presbyterian would do even at a Baptist church. Unfortunately, this safe choice rendered me anything but safe since I was miserably exposed standing there all by myself in trying to be myself. This unexpected miscalculation made me wonder if I should have done it otherwise and thus no eye brows would have raised and I be spared from the excruciating public display. Being singled out from everyone else turned out to be more strenuous than blending in. Maybe conformity is the comfort zone in that it can be a mean of camouflage, leading to an opportune and much needed safety?
The skirt experiment may have been a somewhat disillusion for my vanity’s sake but none the less a profitable revelation at the end. Sometimes, it is easier not to be you outside than to be you inside.
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