Things That Burn My Biscuits: Business Attire Edition

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a fan of dressing up in business attire. ­I guess I don’t mind for special occasions like church services, weddings, or probation meetings, but on a typical day I just don’t see the point. I work in a tiny cubicle in a tiny office, and only a handful of people see me each day, none of which are customers. As a marketing professional, I sit quietly at my desk and market things/write silly blogs, so why am I dressed like a bar mitzvah is about to break out?

If it were up to me I would wear jeans and a t-shirt every day of my life, because having to wear business attire is a terrible crime against comfort the likes of which The Mongols would have enforced if it weren't easier to just burn entire cities. The reasons for this are many-fold, and I am about to go into excruciating detail. And while I’m typing this I am currently wearing slacks, a collared shirt, and a tie, so I can guarantee that my trivial rage will be fresh. These burned biscuits are straight from the oven. Enjoy!

The Pants

Dress pants come in a variety of shapes, colors, and materials, but they all have one thing in common – they were tailored by the devil to maximize discomfort. The waist bands of most slacks were designed to rest on top of your hips, if your hips started somewhere in the middle of your sternum. Adding to the discomfort is the fact that you are required, by society, to tuck two shirts (under and outer) into this waistband. And then you’ve still got your underwear all up in the mix. You know how a butterfly flapping its wings is said to cause a hurricane somewhere on the other side of the world? Well now that all of your main articles of clothing converge at your pants’ waist band, moving your arms can create a ripple effect resulting in a wedgie in your southern hemisphere.

And then there are the pockets. Ninety-seven percent of all dress pant pocket openings are cut diagonally at an angle carefully measured by Beelzebub to evacuate all your belongings as soon as you sit down. Because if there’s one thing Ol’ Scratch delights in, it's making you lose your quarters for the Coke machine.

  

 “WHERE ARE MY QUARTERS??!!….

There. Will. Be. Blood!”

The Tie

Wearing a tie is much like being constantly strangled by a little old lady with arthritis. It won’t restrict your breathing, but you’ll certainly notice it.

“Funny…I don’t remember putting a tie on this morning…”

If a golden formula for tying a tie the correct length exists, I am not privy to it. I’d say on average it takes me 1,713 attempts before the small strand does not exceed the big strand, or the big strand does not exceed my knees. On the rare occasion that I get it right on the first try, the heavens part, a single ray of sunlight shines directly on my chest, and a choir of angels sing Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. That’s when I know it’s going to be a good day.

  

The Socks and Shoes

Dress socks come up comically high on your leg, which I guess they have to, because many dress pant legs recede like the tide before a tsunami when you sit down. If the socks came up any higher, they would have to be reclassified as panty hose. At best, when I wear them, I feel like a kid at an early 80’s summer camp.

The marketing firm of Finkelstein & Nehisock

Dress shoes come in two different comfort categories – Vietnamese Rice Field Sandals and Dutch Wooden Clogs. And for the women there’s Chinese Foot Binding. I wore slip-on street shoes to work the other day, because I ran out of black dress socks and wearing white ankle socks would have looked ridiculous, and it felt like I was walking on clouds. There was just something about wearing comfortable shoes out of context that made it feel so much better. Of course my boss immediately noticed, because he notices if I don’t shave or if there is a wrinkle in my shirt (there is always a wrinkle in my shirt). But for that one day, I felt like Mr. Rogers would have felt had he ever put on his Keds before going to work.

"9 a.m and I'm wearing tennis shoes? I'm feeling saucy!"

Bonus Gripe: Casual Day

Bosses know good and well that their employees hate dressing up for work every day, and they exploit it by offering casual days as a prize for superb performance (this does not include my boss, who wouldn't offer a casual day if I lost my clothes in a fire). It just feels like being a little kid and receiving a gold star. It’s so patronizing. But don’t get me wrong – I would still throw you under a metaphorical and physical bus if I thought it would result in me being able to wear a t-shirt to work. I just don’t like comfort being harnessed as a weapon, or, as the boss sees it, being used as a motivator. “Congratulations! You have earned the right to be comfortable!” Gee. Thanks. Prisoners may lead a rough life, but you can’t argue that at least their wardrobe looks comfy.

“I killed my co-worker when I lost my soda quarters.

And then I was sentenced to 20 years of casual Fridays.”

**********************************************

So now that you've read 900 words of me complaining, let me say that I, of course, am grateful to have a job, and that I know it could be much, much worse. I realize some dress standards have to be present, or else the office would descend into a stained-pajama-and-inappropriate-slogan-shirt fiasco. But if I can't vent my pathetic and frivolous frustrations to the internet, who can I turn to? So thanks, Internet, for being an attentive ear. Let me return the favor by stating your least favorite dress code in the comments. Let it out, Internet. Let it out.

For more steaming piles of insignificant vitriol, read The Holiday Edition and the Public Bathroom Edition.

The Dark Nate Rises

This is the thrilling conclusion to the epic Unemployed Superhero trilogy. You can read Natman Begins here, and The Dark Nate here.

“Birmingham doesn't need you any more, Nate.” I groggily awaken and raise my head to meet inches from Mr. Toodles' beady, dead eyes. I'm not sure why all my sanity breaks involve him, but I've come to consider the plush bugger as a sidekick. “And why are you only wearing underpants and a bedsheet tied around your neck?”

“I don't know, Mr. Toodles. Why are you a talking Pillow Pet? The world is full of questions.”

“For the last time, Mr. Toodles. My name isn't Nate! It's Natman. And it's not a bedsheet! It's a fancy tablecloth.” Mr. Toodles' gaze is unmoving. “Look, you know I can't afford a real superhero costume.” I'm standing up now, with Mr. Toodles at an unfortunate underpants level as I continue. “Have you seen the price per yard on flame-retardant polyurethane silk blends? You can't just buy that stuff in the fabric section of Wal-Mart.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you!” Mr. Toodles' thick British accent always makes him sound huffy. “You're not a 'super hero' anymore.” I notice he did some odd motion with his stubby little flippers while he spoke.

“Air quotes, Mr. Toodles? How chaaaahmin'.” I do my best to mimic Mr. Toodles' accent, but it comes out sounding Jamaican. I realize that all my fake accents sound Jamaican, and I start practicing the word 'charming' over and over under my breath. Mr. Toodles sighs deeply, but obliges. Several minutes pass.

“Still Jamaican,” he huffs. “And now, let's get back to the matter at hand.” I stare quizzically at Mr. Toodles. “You know....” he continues, “the fact that you're not unemployed anymore, and that you've moved to a new state?” I cradle my chin with my index finger and thumb to accentuate that I am in deep thought. “I am in deep thought,” I proclaim to further accentuate that I am in deep thought. I'm not sure Mr. Toodles was getting the picture here, and I really wanted to drive that point home.

“Focus, Nathan!” he shouts as he slaps me across the face with his stuffed flipper. It feels like a breeze caressing me with clouds, but I play nice and throw my head in the direction of his aggression. Mr. Toodles is very sensitive about his cuddliness. “You've moved all your belongings and left most of your friends to work as a marketing manager at a realty group in Atlanta! In fact, you've been in Atlanta for about two months now!”

Stunned, I look around the room and realize that I am not in my Birmingham apartment. I sink onto the bed next to Mr. Toodles, and he unlatches himself and sprawls onto his back. I accept his offer and rest my head on his cottony stomach as I try to piece everything together. “Bu- but why would I do that? Birmingham is all I've known the past eight years. Who will be her protector? Who will slink in the shadows and impede the progress of villainy?”

“Birmingham doesn't need an unemployed lunatic running around in uncomfortably short underpants,” Mr. Toodles asserts.

“Oh, no they are quite comfortable,” I retort. “They're very thin, so they really breathe.”

“That's not what I meant!” Mr. Toodles is growing more agitated, only serving to make him look more adorable. I work very hard not to reach out and and gently stroke his head. “Nate,” he continues, “you left Birmingham because you needed something different. And now you have your own apartment and a new job. You wanted change and you found it!”

I sit up and face Mr. Toodles again, still confused. “That doesn't sound like me. I hate change! One time a homeless man came up to me on the street and asked me for change, and just hearing the word caused me to curl up in the fetal position and start crying.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Mr. Toodles sighed. “He felt so bad for you he gave you a dollar.”

“So why, then, did I abandon Birmingham? The city needs me!”

Mr. Toodles latches himself back up, and I can tell he is choosing his words carefully. I impatiently wait for his answer. “Because...” his dark eyes flit around the room nervously until, suddenly, his face lights up. “Because your old roommate, Zach, has taken up your mantle as the city's protector!”

“You mean Zobin the Bearded Wonder!?” I exclaim like a little girl on Christmas morning.

Mr. Toodles sighs. He sure does sigh a lot when we talk. “Yes, Zach- I mean, Zobin is keeping a watchful eye on the city so that you can be a productive citizen of Atlanta by holding a full-time job that requires you to wear pants.”

I excitedly stand and pace the room, finally connecting all the dots and remembering my path to Atlanta. I spill out into the parking lot and see that I am in the shadows of highrises as the bustle of city traffic fills my ears. Mr. Toodles waddles outside and stops at my feet. “This is great, Mr. Toodles!” I shout, ignoring the horrified stares of my neighbors.

“Now you've got it!” he replies. “Now you're back on track!”

“Yes,” I agree. “A new city and a new life. There's lots of exploring to do, Toodles ol' pal!” He looks up at me, his eyes squinting and the corners of his beak ever so slightly fading downward as if he was waiting for another sentence. “And lots of villains to catch!” I finish.

“Nate, you've missed the point!” It's too late. I've taken off running down the street with my cape flapping in the wind, undulating like a wave of justice. “You're going to miss work!” he yells desperately.

I pretend I can't hear him. “I can't hear you saying I'll miss work!” My words echo as I duck down a back alley and run straight into a homeless man scrounging through a dumpster. His wrinkled face sours as he looks me over. "Oh, don't worry. I was just talking to my Pillow Pet. He wants me to go to work today, but clearly I have more important things to do." The man silently hands me a dollar and pats me on the shoulder before taking a bite out of a discarded, moldy bagel.

Some things will never change.

Atlanta. She is my city, and I her protector.