About 20 minutes before we closed yesterday, my boss poked her head in the door and announced that it would be Casual Friday today. The initial rush of excitement and flurry of ideas of what I could wear the next day were later to be quelled by two contrasting ideologies: cute, truly casual wear, and the exasperation of trying to look professional and having to wear jeans in the middle of summer in the hottest state in America. (My office Casual Friday rules state “You must wear jeans or khakis, with a work appropriate shirt. You must also pretend like you are not sweating and smell like a mule. “)
Now for some, this would not be such a big deal- say if you worked in an office that you didn’t have to deal directly with a client, or some movie-like newspaper/magazine where you could wear whatever you wanted to as long as it was trendy and “cool.” But when you are working in an insurance office where you are always dealing with clientele, dressing for “Casual” Friday is a little more complicated.
So I’m sitting in my room last night, in a pile of clothing, gripping a beautiful salmon colored shirt that I want to wear so badly and wiping the nervous sweat that beads up on my brow with the dark, dressy jeans that I don’t want to but know that I will have to wear the next day. I realize something at this point, as I clutch the twirly skirt and the cute shorts and large waist belt to my breast with a wild look in my eye…I hate Casual Friday. Because it is never really “casual.” Because people will be judging by just what you are wearing, employees and clients alike. I mean, you can take the chance and wear those light-washed jeans and graphic tee from Banana Republic, but all day you will feel self-conscious that you have killed your professional integrity by actually coming to work in comfortable clothing.
Now you may be thinking, So, just wear a skirt or something, Ryan. You don’t have to look like a bum. Ah, yes, but then you will be the party foul who showed up on Casual Friday in something sassy and semi-professional. The next thing you know, someone is spiking your coffee with copier ink and leaving Hate post-its in your cubicle. I do not want to be that girl.
So eventually, I had to resign myself to my jeans and spent today sweating my face off every time someone opened the door to the inferno that lies outside and shifting uncomfortably as my dark dressy jeans moved into strange and foreign places after sitting in the same chair for so long.
The next time you hear someone resounding joyfully at the mention of this mythical day of casual fashion, do me a favor and punch them in the face. It will ease the pain for them of dealing with the fallacies of Casual Friday later.
If I had been able to dress in my regularly scheduled clothing, this may have happened:
