I am home-based these days (as opposed to cube-based). Which makes me so happy I don’t have the words.
Home-based means you don’t run out the door in the morning. It means you don’t have to shove yourself out of bed. It means homecooked food, flexible days, and the ability to say “it’s gorgeous today! I’m going to go outside.” (<-how broken is it if in a whole day you can’t /go outside/ for 2 minutes).
It also means a certain… laxness to the wardrobe. In my previous positions, the contracts have usually made at least a passing mention to ‘appropriate business attire’. In my last contract, that’s actually the exact phrase. In the midst of: “…shall conform to the Client’s business policies, standards and conventions, including personnel standards. These include… appropriate business attire.” And when I’m working in an office, I adhere to these rules.*
But my kitty enforces no such rules. Her only standard is “something that means I can loll about on your knees without you throwing me off”. Her bar is low (which makes sense, as she’s really short — har dee har).
And my EF also doesn’t seem to give a toss. He has this whole “but you’re always beautiful” attitude which never ceases to amaze me. (<-and also leads me to test him. I like to seek him out when I’m at my most unsexy and be all “what about now?”. The little bugger always says yes.**)
Which leaves me entirely to my own whims and inclinations. MWAHAHAHA…
But I observed the other day that outside of “comfy”, what I end up wearing is less ‘planned’, and more ‘evolved’.
I get up in the morning around when the EF does, make him coffee and something for breakfast (usually). And then he leaves. And what I /should/ do is have a morning routine. A whole shower, make-the-bed, wash the dishes, get dressed sort of thing (not in that order). But I don’t. Almost unfailingly blameable on the computer. Because I make myself breakfast, and instead of eating it and then getting on with my day in a focused way, I sit down to “just reply to that one email”. Then I reply to a few emails. And check my rss feed. And watch something on YouTube. Work on a project. Chat with someone(s) on GMail. And before you know it, it’s noon:30 and I’m still going through my day by cobbling it together.
And, by extension, my outfit.
I start of in some form of pj. And then in amongst the emailing, rssing and breakfasting, I gradually add and replace layers until I end up enough clothes of the right variety that I can call myself “dressed”.
Take yesterday. Where by mid-afternoon I was wearing the socks I threw on in the morning (when I got out of bed to make EF breakkie), a pair of his torn sweatpants (which I adore and have officially adopted), a tshirt, a pair of loafers (my feet were chilly), and a small cashmere cardigan I bought secondhand.
Not one of these items matched. Though a good many of them were clean (<-it’s all about the small victories). Pale pale mauve sweater, black shirt, heather grey sweatpants with a fluorescent yellow and pink Nike logo (and bleach stains), white socks, hemp loafers. Oh, and a clip to keep my hair out of sight and mind.
Cuh-luh-assy. 🙂 For some reason, I just don’t look like the lady in the Ikea catalogue in her home office. But I think I’m okay with that, as she looks like she’s lost all perspective on appropriate use of caffeine.
*Though at my last job, I did somehow got the reputation of having a little too much ‘personality’ in my Friday wardrobe (there is nothing wrong, and very much right, with a Kozyndan tshirt of a bunny wearing headphones). And a smidge too little Yorkville in my weekly wardrobe (I will not wear heels to work. I will wear appropriate, good-looking shoes. But you’ll find me wearing heels to appease a boss over my cold dead flats-wearing body.)
**That is not to say he’s a love-blind idiot. If I make a something-in-my-teeth face, and my hair is greasy and I’ve just spilled pasta sauce down my front, he will concede that I’m not looking my “best”. 🙂
