Sometimes I just get the urge to dress nice. But try explaining that to my co-worker sistahs.
As I was pulling my ratty Friday jeans off the rack in my closet this morning, I happened to notice the high-heeled, lace-up granny boots that I bought in November as a birthday present to myself. I love them so much that I've named them. Evelyn and Leighanne. But although they look fabulous, like so many other females they are deeply malicious and catty. They pretend to be nice to you and then when you're least expecting it, they pinch and squeeze for their own amusement.
No matter. It had been months since I'd worn Ev & Leigh, and the memory of the pain they'd caused me last time had sufficiently dulled. I slipped them on and immediately felt fabulous enough to wear a suede skirt to work instead of jeans.
I whipped in the door and passed a co-worker on my way to my office. She eyed me suspiciously. "You look nice today," she hedged.
"Thanks!" I said. "I have a job interview later."
She looked at me quizzically. I thought I heard a faint rustling sound as I walked away. It was the sound of rumors preening their wings and readying for flight.
People kept passing my office and pausing as if to confirm that yes, I was wearing a skirt.
"Taco Bell for lunch?" asked another co-worker via email.
"No thanks," I typed back. "I'm having lunch with Oldest daughter."
A few minutes later, a different co-worker stepped into my office, leaned in close and said, "I think you should talk to Boss."
"She heard that you're interviewing somewhere over lunch and she's mad that you're being so obvious and cold about it."
I noticed that Evelyn was beginning to dig into my little toe.