It’s a Tuesday morning at 7:28 am. I’m standing in my underwear before my closet contemplating what I’ll wear to work that day. For the first time in my life, I look at my wardrobe and think to myself; I am literally the human version of beige socks.
Do I wear black trousers? Cheque. Grey blazer?
Cheque. Neutral pumps?
Double cheque.
Look, I have really cute clothes.
Clothes that I love to wear on weekends when I don’t have to talk to or see anyone from work. Tight skirts, booty shorts, Birkenstocks, bright colours.
But I never wear them. When I get dressed in the morning, I’m not dressing for where I’m going, I’m dressing to not stand out. You know what I mean?
I stare at my closet and ponder this revelation. What would happen if I didn’t dress for work this week? What would happen if I dressed like I was going somewhere else?
Five days. Five destinations. No explanation needed for co-workers.
Worst case scenario, I look like a fool for five days. Best case? I discover the secret to freeing myself from my own brain prison.
Work lunch is Thursday so I decide Day One is beach holiday. Resort wear, people! Because why wear cute spring weather clothes when New York basically decides it wants to hate humans every year around April?
I grab a floral maxi dress that shows just enough off my rear to keep people intrigued, and not aroused. Beachy-yet-sturdy sandals, oversized straw hat, and I drizzle myself in coconut-scented body oil like it’s holy water. I pass Mr.
Gonzalez from down the hall in the lobby as he smiles approvingly at my wardrobe choices. “Good vibes, lady. Whatever you’re doing, I’m rooting for you.” The subway isn’t as difficult as I’d anticipated. Strangers give me knowing looks as if they’ve been itching to dress like me but don’t want anyone at work to know.
One woman scowls at me but quickly looks away like my actions may somehow be her fault? I strut down the subway stairs like I’m walking onto the beach with my latte in hand. This is glorious. “You swear you work here?” Dave from security asks as I swipe my card.
The minute I step through those glass doors I become invisible to Dave, so him acknowledging me today feels like WHO I AM RIGHT NOW. “You know it!” I say with confidence, ready to slay my spreadsheet-filled Tabetomes. Emma comes barreling into my cube like she just ran the corporate Misery Marathon. “Girl, did Bradley even notice you?” I love Emma Watson. We work together and have developed a relationship akin to siblings.
We bitch about Bradley together and let each other cry in private offices when the Corporate Gods are harshing our moods. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees me. “Either you fell down and didn’t tell anyone and kept working or you’re sleeping with that guy who owns that beach place in the Hamptons and I want to hear about it!” Bradley looks like I’ve interrupted his morning soap opera marathon. His eyes widen so much his chin actually creeps up towards his forehead.
I smile and give him a sassified wave. He stutters something about Tuesdays and meetings and I know he’ll be gossiping about my outfit to Emma by lunch. The day flies by.
But something’s different. I actually finish a series of emails I’ve been avoiding for weeks. I help Bob from finance with a tech issue that had been bothering me for months.
I raise my hand in a meeting to share a new idea. I leave work feeling like I totally crushed it and I thank my imaginary beach friends for that. Day Two: Royal Wedding Guest.
Because why dress for Spring when you can pretend you’re attending a royal wedding? ! Imagine my stress when it takes me nearly three days to get ready. Structured midi dress?
Cheque. Fascinator? Cheque.
Elbow-Length Gloves? Double cheque. Holy shit wearing gloves is hard.
You know how long it takes to apply eyeliner when you’re Mummy-ing it with your non dominant hand? Prepare to triple that when attempting to shove anything into your mouth wearing gloves. The subway is insane.
Riding public transit while wearing an article of jewellery balanced on your head is apparently an extreme sport I didn’t know I was signed up for. I grip the skull of my fascinator so tightly throughout the ride home I develop bruises. You’d think people would be used to me by now.
Not the case. Elderly women clutch pearls at me in the lift, wondering which royal couple I’m actually there to celebrate. Guess who got to the office first and quietly judged everyone waiting for the lift about their fascinator choices.
Emma does a little curtsy when I arrive at my desk. BRING. IT.
ON. Bradley slowly backs away from our meeting like he wants to hug me but also report me to HR. Our department head pops her head into my cube and I’m half expecting her to faint right in front of me. “I don’t know what’s going on Harper, but I approve of your dedication,” she smiles.
Oh man, today was tough. Gloves came off within the first hour. Details, Harper.
Writing on a computer with gloves on is impossible. The fascinator was so heavy it gave me a headache and once I took it off, I couldn’t exactly put it back on so I had to sleep with it like a chubby horseshoe pressed up against my scalp. Wedding guest gear isn’t made for office work.
Where do your hands go when typing? Do you keep them in your lap? HOW DO YOU FUNCTIONAL OPERATE INTERNET WITH OUT YOUR HANDS FREE? !
Oddly enough, I worked harder today than I did Beachwear Tuesday. Could it be that rocking a badass dress made me better at my job? Day Three: Nightclub Ready 8AM Buckle the fuck up.
Sequined mini dress that would make Barry Manilow weep with joy? Cheque. Platforms that make me hate floors but also love how my legs look?
Cheque. Smokey eye that takes me forty-five minutes to perfect but will only fade by noon? Cheque.
Hair unruly enough that you’d think I spent years training shirtless under the Italian sun but natural enough that everyone will assume I woke up like this? CHEQUE. Baby.
You. I gotchu. Generally, positive reactions from commuters except for from businessmen who glance at their watches like they wear Timex and maybe think it’s already happy hour?
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Two women shoot me joyous nods that clearly communicate “Girl, you do you. We see you.” Dave gives me a look that can only be described as “I don’t even” and shakes his head when I pass security. Someone get this man a retirement party.
I’ve noticed a theme with my co-workers reactions. Older generations are mortified. Younger generations love it and ask if we’re going out after work and can they join.
Management looks at me with horror then back at their screens pretending I literally do not exist. Bradley steals a glance at me during our 1:00 one-on-ones so I know he’s bothered. But he says nothing and resorts to quietly judging me through squirrel-eyed slits every chance he gets.
Honestly, I love it. During one of our meetings, I catch Bradley squirming in his seat because the sequins from my dress are flashing him little rainbow disco lights onto his computer monitor. He weakly asks if everything is okay.
If I’m “dudding” and need to talk to HR. “Honestly Bradley, I’m just trying out all the wonderful opportunities life has to offer. Clothes are CONTEXTUAL, you asshole.” He looks relieved and confused at the same time so I know this will be a story he shares at dinner parties for years to come. By the time 3:00 rolled around I stopped getting reactions.
The sparkle wore off and my workmates accepted me wearing nightclub gear to work. Emma stopped walking towards my desk and midsentence text, “H Harper… I just realised… You look NORMAL to me right now.” We’re both ashamed but admire each other for it. Day Four: Full Hiking Gear Rain jacket.
Trousers. Extra layers. Snug boots.
Wide-brim hat. Hydration pack. Waist pack.
Water bottle. Hat. Trekking poles.
More bottles! Emergency space blanket. The works. “I hate to break it to you but you are way overdressed for the office,” the teenage boy working at my local coffee shop told me this morning as I wrestled my hydration pack onto my back.
Little Bobby never stepped away from the espresso machine so I’m guessing he’ll be posting photos of my face on Reddit for the rest of his career. I hate trainers. Trainers give me cavities.
Trainers are too mainstream. But holy hell I miss trainers about three blocks into my morning commute. Your feet do not make cute slopping sounds when wearing hiking boots on office tiled floors.
Especially not the hiking boots I bought that were two sizes too small because Lauren Hedstrom told me to live my best hike life. Your office chair does not have spikes on it to accommodate extra layers of clothing designed to keep you warm on snowy mountain peaks. My chair soaked up my sweat through my performance tech shirt and dry-fit t-shirt and I flashed everyone my skin didn’t hate me when I stood up.
I complete an entire day of work dressed like I’m about to summit Mt. Everest and had this euphoric moment where I actually rocked a HELLO MY NAME IS NAME BADGE all day. I’ve never felt more professional.
Random fact: Hiking clothes = hiking mindset. Whether or not I was “actually” working hard, I instantly adopted work appropriate attitudes when I slipped into my hiking attire. Focused.
Determined. Ready for mother nature to throw whatever she wanted at me and my fellow hikers. Our office had an all hands meeting this afternoon and post-yak session, our CEO actually approached me.
CEOs don’t approach me. But she did and we had this genuine conversation about how I always seem prepared for anything. Genuinely her words, not mine.
Bradley nearly had a stroke when I “forgotten” to microwave my lunch, lolled and instead pulled out a full camp stove I’d stuffed into my hydration pack and tried to light it on fire underneath my desk. “Uh Harper, that’s not exactly allowed. Fire Marshall and all that…” He laughed nervously but was SO PROPER WHEN I SAID THANKS AND STOOD UP FROM MY STATION LIKE NOTHING WAS WRONG. Day Five: All Black Tie Formal Ball gown?
Cheque. Opera gloves? Cheque.
Heavy glitter smokey eye? Cheque. Full formal updo?
Cheque. Statement jewellery? Cheque.
Itty bitty mini purse that holds absolutely nothing? CHEQUE. You have no idea how challenging it is to take the subway with a ball gown.
Can we talk about subway turnstiles and how rude they are to people in floor-length gowns? GIRL. STEP ASIDE.
The stairs are no joke either. There is literally NO WAY to manage massive fabric with subway stairs and a handrail that I’m positive was engineered by sexists to be as difficult as possible for women. I couldn’t grab the stupid rail and opted to use my free hand to balance my skirt instead.
Thank GOD it didn’t rain because lemme tell ya, managing an umbrella with all of this was not happening. Dave sighs when he sees me at the door. “Alright last day of Zoo Squad uniforms, huh?” I nod and he smiles at me. “Well save the best for last kid. You got this.” Doors are held open for me ALL DAY LONG.
Get it together, workplace America. It’s 2022 and casual Friday should be informal scrubs but we’re not there yet so lemme tell you something people. Formal attire changes how people treat you.
Even when you’re going to work. I make small talk with Bradley about nothing in particular and realise halfway through our conversation that I can’t take notes. “Oh shoot, sorry.” I lift my gown and fix my sleeve so I can access my arms again. Bradley stares at me, stunned.
But says nothing. After five days of not dressing for work, I learned a lot about myself. I spent so much time trying to not stand out that I actually did the opposite and SUCKED AT MY JOB.
I was going through the motions every day by dressing the same.
Wearing the same things on repeat told my brain we were operating in autopilot mode and there was no reason to excel.
So what if I wore crazy shit to work for a week?
Nothing happened. I still woke up every day and did my job. I showed up to work dressed as a toddler’s Picasso painting and didn’t get fired.
It’s OK to colour outside the lines friends. We spend so much time trying to “fit in” and be that perfect employee that we forget to just… exist at work sometimes. Dress for who you want to attract into your life, not where you’re going that day.
P.S. Who cares where you’re going that day? If you’re dressing for work, you’re probably working a job that could care less where you’re going after you clock out.
See people for who they are, dress how you want, and own your weird. JUST DANCE.
