This weekend, I fly to Atlanta. For work. This means I will have to dress myself in something other than my standard work uniform. Getting dressed for my real life looks something like this: 1. step into the same pair of fat jeans that I wear every day because absolutely under no circumstance will I commit to a larger size. 2. slip on which ever long sleeved top features the least amount of cat hair.
So, I'm talking with Ireland, telling him about the trip, where I'll stay, meeting times and locations. "What are you going to wear?" he asks. What I wear is of paramount importance to Ireland. According to him, his tutelage over these last 18 months is the only reason people don't point at me on the street. Transforming me from a slut-muffin and into a wholesome, fresh-faced Irish lass is one of his primary goals in life. Because when I look good, he looks good. Oh Yeah.
So when he asks "what are you going to wear," he doesn't just ask the question, he dissertates - while looking over the top of his glasses. It's what I call his Father Time Look. He uses it when he's about to impart some wisdom he's certain I'll be too unsophisticated to appreciate. "Oh, I don't know," I respond. "Probably nice jeans and a top. Maybe a jacket."
He closes his eyes. Shakes his head. Sighs. "Ye can't wear fookin' jeans to a business meeting!" He is clearly distressed. Have I learned nothing from him? Really, I counter. What then, should I wear? A nice skirt, he replies. With a blouse. Oh, My Fricken Word. A blouse. I've seen the "blouse" he has in mind. It actually has cap sleeves and ruffles. I pause. Humor him. Shall I wear pearls, I ask. He considers this for a moment. T'would be nice, he responds. I roll my eyes. OMG. I'm an artist, I remind him. We don't wear ruffled shirts and pearls anywhere, for ANYTHING.
He's still wearing The Look. Once again, I've revealed myself as a classless & hopeless shrew in dire need of taming. Even white trash such as myself knows that no outfit is complete without proper footware. And on my feet, I ask? What shall I wear on my feet? A nice pair of heels, he counters. Perfect. You'll recognize me as the artist from New Hampshire teetering around the streets of Atlanta in heels and pearls. And lest we forget, a ruffled blouse.
I'll drive myself to the airport. I have no fricken idea what I'll be wearing. But I promise you, there will be no pearls. Or ruffles.