Maintaining Professionalism Through Appearance

This isn’t the first time I’ve caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and wondered, “God, how long have you been wearing that shirt?” Admittedly, disgusting yourself takes time, specifically, three days. I’m not sure what took me so long to notice that I’d been adorned in this super cute top for more than 72 hours, all the classic symptoms were there: body odor, chronic fatigue, empty bong, hair resembling a rat’s nest, pallet of empty soda cans piled on the floor, pillow marks on my face and the ever popular Dorito handprint skid across the front. Did I even eat Dorito’s today?

 By my calculations, which lean towards “generally inaccurate,” I would estimate that I pulled this shirt onto my person sometime Sunday afternoon. It is now Tuesday evening. And a real showpiece it is. It features a bird of sorts, which somewhat resembles the Atlanta Hawks NBA team logo with the words “Hillel Hawks” emblazoned on the front and fits awkwardly, if at all. Among other questions it begs, the most obvious and poignant remains, “At what point did I hang out with a size youth large Jewish athlete? And how did he manage to lose his shirt?”

 I think it goes without saying, that when you’ve forgotten how long you’ve been wearing a shirt, (or where it came from) you’ve also forgone showering for at least as long, and in the event that I’m involved, probably longer. I like to tell myself that I’m a better person for saving gallons upon wasted gallons of water by not showering or laundering clothes, but what I really am, is fairly smelly and a little bit sad.

 It’s difficult to determine if poor hygiene leads to unemployment or if unemployment leads to poor hygiene. I tend to believe the latter, because when I was gainfully employed my shirts were clean and pressed, my shoes shined and the crotches/knees of my jeans were still intact. My work wardrobe lacked putrid scent, cigarette burns and processed cheese powder stains, and usually smelled strongly of Gain detergent. My hair was trimmed and kempt, worn down and smooth and my shoes didn’t appear to have been involved in roughnecking in a muddy swamp. In short, I looked like I worked in an office, not like I sold tonics and cures with the other gypsies.

 Still, I worked in a “casual environement” or at least pretended to. I’ll put it this way, in the beginning I tried my best to keep up appearances, on days when I was too lazy to iron a shirt, I’d throw on T-shirt, on days when I forgot shoes, I’d slide into flip-flops, when my (what do you call pants that aren’t jeans? Pants?) pants were dirty, I’d rock a pair of jeans, when none of my superiors commented, I combined the three for an ultra sleek jeans/T-shirt/flip-flops kind of professionalism. Still, I was clean, and for all intents and purposes, I think that’s all that mattered.

 Moving forward—to my most recent year-long search for meaningful employment—I have frequently come across the phrase “professional appearance required” in job descriptions, which for me is synonymous with “not applying.” Here comes the part where I sound like a cross between a child with intolerance to itchy things and heat, and a total bull-dyke, but here goes.

 First of all, you expect me to wear a business suit? A women’s power-suit kind of business suit? What am I? Running for office now? No. And what kind of asshole purchases a business suit when they sleep till 2 p.m. and only leave the house to obtain cigarettes, soda and donuts (in that order)?

 Yea, I don’t actually HAVE a job, but I would like to buy this men’s suit with boob darts and a shorter fly. I like that it’s a top and a bottom that match exactly, oh and how it makes my arms unable to raise above a John McCain level and my whole body wish it was dead on account of the increased heat it provides. Oh it only comes in gray, navy and black? Perfect. And yes, by not wearing a necktie, it looks totally feminine and super professional. I mean, I lean towards lesbian-looking anyway, you throw a suit jacket/blazer  in the mix and I might as well tattoo a rainbow flag on my forehead and carry a Prop H8 poster on a stick everywhere I go.

 And heels? Seriously? I know I’m not the first individual to wonder who in the hell invented these artifacts of torture. And oh, I understand their appeal. They make you taller, elongate your legs and they look swell with a nifty pair of fitted dungarees, but all that is overshadowed by the fact that they render your feet and legs almost useless! Let’s see, how can I make my morning commute less tolerable? I know, I’ll stick a piece of equipment on my feet that is shaped so awkwardly that it will more than triple the amount of time it takes for me to walk anywhere I need to go. Essentially, I want to take the most basic of human gross motor skills and handicap it. Also, hopefully I can walk with as many people as possible who have not chosen this impediment to mobility, and complain of foot pain while I walk a block behind for the entire mile walk to the Metro. And at the end of the night, I’ll probably put these ridiculous shoes in my bag and risk hepatitis by walking the streets barefoot, because only after a dozen Red Headed Slut Shooters, am I willing to admit that these shoes are completely asinine.

 Oof, give me a gripped rubber soul and some flexible canvas. I fucking WALK with this appendage and/or run like hell when the mushroom cloud starts to swell. Looks like we’ll both die of radiation, but at least I can get out of the way fast enough to avoid facial deformations, while you hobble behind in those foot retard-ers you call stilettos. . .