I'm starting a new job tomorrow, at a rather glamorous magazine. It's the first time I've worked in an office since I did my internship back in the 90s - until last year, I worked in a home office where I used to spontaneously choreograph interpretive dance moves to entertain my sister (who was also my colleague), wear slippers and make a party train to the kitchen when I wanted a cup of coffee (it was a rather sad party train, as there were only the two of us most of the time, and she doesn't like party training).
I don't think such moves are going to go down too well at the new company, which is one of South Africa's largest media organisations. I didn't think my clothes will, either: it's a bit hard to gush about glamour when you yourself are wearing a T-shirt stained with breast milk and there is a carroty crust in the hank of hair that's hanging down next to your ear because you were slap dash when you tied the rest of its limp friends into a ponytail.
Thus, I took action. My plan was to have a haircut and a pedicure, as well as a new wardrobe: in my mind's eye, I strode into the office with a Brazillianed Cleopatra bob and my nails flashing vintage red. As it is, the thought of spending all that time away from Leya sent me into a panic and I refused to leave her at all this week, so my feet look like the leather that is given to old Eskimo women to chew on and my hair is perching like a wayward cat on my shoulders.
But I do have some nice new clothes. At least, I think they are nice. I have gone for some dresses that I am sure can be described by some special fashion word, but I don't know what it is. James, I am sure, would like to hazard a guess, as he has expressed some strong views on my new look.
For my first day, I have chosen one of those dresses that has to be explained to you by the shop assistant, otherwise you end up wearing it upside down. I am regularly drawn to these garments: a few years ago, I spotted a bright orange item at The Space in Rosebank. I liked the colour, and although I couldn't quite make out which part you put on your body, the label had it down as a 'skirt/top'. I wasn't really sure how those two pieces of clothing could be interchangeable, related to two entirely parts of the body as they are, but nonetheless, into the change room I went, and slid it, poncho style, over my head. I found it odd that the iterm seemed to have been designed with slits strategically placed so as to display, rather than cover, my boobs, but since I've never been much of a fashionista, I just thought it was an avant garde look, and decided I would wear a strappy vest underneath. I did have concerns that I would look like one of those children's drawings of a seal at the circus - you know, with a frill around its neck. But hey, I thought, sometimes it's nice to be edgy.
As it turns out, the top was meant to be worn as a boob tube - around the chest, not the neck.
James, it would appear, does not share my appreciation for the unusual frock. When I tried on my first day dress, I was so excited, so proud that I looked nothing like a mommy, that I was beaming. Which is why it hurt when he erupted with a guffaw, snorting, "You look like you're going to a toga party. No wait, are you wearing a continental pillow case."
He was not much more complimentary about my next choice; a dress which is admittedly a little large and square but which gains shape when you gather it in with a belt. Cue the laughter, again; this time, I looked like I had taken a black garbage bag and cut holes for the neck and arms.
This is not the first time James has been mean about my clothes. My favourite assymmetrical white blouse has been dubbed my 'mastectomy shirt'; he told me one of my button downs made me look as if I had got into a fight with a tramp and the tramp walked away with half my clothes.
But I don't care. I am entering the fashion world, James, and leaving those who walk around in takkies and socks with their costumes (ahem) far behind. So don't even try to walk next to me and share my glamour next time we're out.
I don't think such moves are going to go down too well at the new company, which is one of South Africa's largest media organisations. I didn't think my clothes will, either: it's a bit hard to gush about glamour when you yourself are wearing a T-shirt stained with breast milk and there is a carroty crust in the hank of hair that's hanging down next to your ear because you were slap dash when you tied the rest of its limp friends into a ponytail.
Thus, I took action. My plan was to have a haircut and a pedicure, as well as a new wardrobe: in my mind's eye, I strode into the office with a Brazillianed Cleopatra bob and my nails flashing vintage red. As it is, the thought of spending all that time away from Leya sent me into a panic and I refused to leave her at all this week, so my feet look like the leather that is given to old Eskimo women to chew on and my hair is perching like a wayward cat on my shoulders.
But I do have some nice new clothes. At least, I think they are nice. I have gone for some dresses that I am sure can be described by some special fashion word, but I don't know what it is. James, I am sure, would like to hazard a guess, as he has expressed some strong views on my new look.
For my first day, I have chosen one of those dresses that has to be explained to you by the shop assistant, otherwise you end up wearing it upside down. I am regularly drawn to these garments: a few years ago, I spotted a bright orange item at The Space in Rosebank. I liked the colour, and although I couldn't quite make out which part you put on your body, the label had it down as a 'skirt/top'. I wasn't really sure how those two pieces of clothing could be interchangeable, related to two entirely parts of the body as they are, but nonetheless, into the change room I went, and slid it, poncho style, over my head. I found it odd that the iterm seemed to have been designed with slits strategically placed so as to display, rather than cover, my boobs, but since I've never been much of a fashionista, I just thought it was an avant garde look, and decided I would wear a strappy vest underneath. I did have concerns that I would look like one of those children's drawings of a seal at the circus - you know, with a frill around its neck. But hey, I thought, sometimes it's nice to be edgy.
As it turns out, the top was meant to be worn as a boob tube - around the chest, not the neck.
James, it would appear, does not share my appreciation for the unusual frock. When I tried on my first day dress, I was so excited, so proud that I looked nothing like a mommy, that I was beaming. Which is why it hurt when he erupted with a guffaw, snorting, "You look like you're going to a toga party. No wait, are you wearing a continental pillow case."
He was not much more complimentary about my next choice; a dress which is admittedly a little large and square but which gains shape when you gather it in with a belt. Cue the laughter, again; this time, I looked like I had taken a black garbage bag and cut holes for the neck and arms.
This is not the first time James has been mean about my clothes. My favourite assymmetrical white blouse has been dubbed my 'mastectomy shirt'; he told me one of my button downs made me look as if I had got into a fight with a tramp and the tramp walked away with half my clothes.
But I don't care. I am entering the fashion world, James, and leaving those who walk around in takkies and socks with their costumes (ahem) far behind. So don't even try to walk next to me and share my glamour next time we're out.
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