2003-12-01

My wardrobe is in pretty sorry shape: it would be perfect if I were a cast member in a stage production of Oliver Twist, but seeing as I am not an impoverished orphan in Victorian London, the rags-and-tatters look is a tad pass�. The sleeves of my sweaters are frayed, the hems of my skirts have dropped, and the cuffs of my pants are worn. I�m a fucking fright. Not exactly the way to make a showing in a new job, unless I�m bucking for a pity raise (�Please sir, I want some more overtime.�).

So yesterday I bought a couple of shirts � second-hand, but still looking a darn sight spiffier than anything in my closet. Plain shirts. Boring shirts. Soul-sucking, tattoo-hiding, sell-outing shirts. I went into work this morning in a new scoop-neck, stripey deal, feeling dull and frumpy. My boss arrived about twenty minutes after I did. He stuck his head in my cubicle, paused, and said, �Nice shirt.� I hope that�s office-speak for �Nice rack,� or I�m going to have to do some serious sulking.