I am most definitely not one to ignore a sign from God, especially one suggesting that I take my shirt off, so I was a bit confused and slightly torn over how to handle the situation when the chest-central button on my blouse busted off in the middle of a lunch meeting today. At first, I thought it might be appropriate to stop shoving Chinese food into my mouth, since habits like this are probably what got me into this predicament in the first place. On second thought, I guessed that an over-sized bite full of Chow Mein might draw attention away from the gaping chest hole and exposed–albeit completely breathtaking–boobs, and toward my gaping mouth hole and not-in-the-least-bit breathtaking table manners. I guessed right.
In hindsight, I should have put the fork down. Instead, I proceeded to eat like my life depended on it–even though the stability of my other blouse buttons most definitely did not–while simultaneously bringing my notepad against my chest so hard that I started choking on the noddles. Trust me, if the sight of my breasts turned anyone at the table on, the Chinese food that soon covered them flipped that switch. Fortunately, all this occurred toward the end of the lunch meeting, shortening the time that my breasts had to marinate in noodle sauce. After the meeting, you can imagine the internal debate that raged, between whether to ditch the blouse entirely or continue wearing it; the former option closely resembling the latter. The response from my colleagues present for the showing consisted primarily of “I can not believe that just happened to you,” with one rogue “niiice”–contributed by my always-professional asshole of an administrator. But the truth is, things like this actually happen to me. All the time.
If this month is “These Buttons Aren’t Covering My Breasts” August, last month was “Just Let Me Get My Pants On” July, so named for the morning my COO walked into my office and I didn’t have pants on. See, among the genetic flaws I inherited from my mother and father is the propensity to be unreasonably and unnecessarily cheap. This extends to almost every aspect of my life but especially when it comes to any expenses associated with working. Work should only pay me–I should not have to pay for it–and forking over hundreds upon hundreds of dollars to park downtown near my office is just not going to happen. And because all my professional and fashion-forward office attire is tailored for someone four to six inches taller than I actually am, I have to walk into the office wearing jeans, yoga pants, or the sweatpants I wore to bed the night before. I’m like that seasoned librarian who rolls into work with Reeboks and a canvas sack. Oh, and a monumentally bad attitude.
Because no one comes in my office, ever, I change clothes right at my desk. But when my right pant leg got stuck on the desk chair just as the COO waltzed in, I realized the bathroom might be the most convenient spot in an office to lose one’s pants. Similarly, the bathroom might also be the most opportune place in which to accidentally dump a handful of underwear onto the floor–a lesson I learned during “Maybe I Should Have Taken My Gym Clothes Out Of My Purse Sooner” May. Turns out, you no longer want the underwear when it ends up on the floor at Starbucks in front of your coworkers, but are in that awkward position of having obviously been the one who dropped them there.
Life is a journey; mine just happens to involve a bit more embarrassment than average. That being said, I am really looking forward to “Shouldn’t Have Bought A Size 2” September, “I Ought To Have Worn A Bra” October, “Never Going Without Underwear Again” November, and “Don’t Judge Me Because You Can See My Nipples” December. Hallelujah.