Working Girl

When I was a little girl I used to change my outfits at least 5 times a day. I loved clothes. I loved getting dressed up.  It got to the point where by age 6 my poor mom actually had to reverse my bureau each morning so the drawers were facing the wall, just to stop me from be being able to change outfits all day long.

As I got older I used to love tagging along with my dad to his office downtown.  He would  pay me to come to his insurance company and help him ‘file’ but really this was just another excuse for me to get dressed up and pretend – at 12 – to blend in with the hustle and bustle of a business day.  I loved seeing all the fancy ladies in their high heeled pumps and power suits with enough shoulder padding to stop a speeding bullet. This was the mid 80’s, after all.  And I daydreamed about how much fun it would be one day to work in a big fancy office, wear a stylish suit and high heeled pumps, carry a briefcase and do something important. Me with my frizzy Sun-in highlighted hair, over sized teal blazer and matching teal hoop earrings with my favorite black velor corded stirrup leggings and my monogrammed L.L. Bean backpack.  Trying so desperately hard to look the part.

Today I’m writing from the Acela high speed train on my way into NYC for an important meeting with two colleagues – that are both way skinnier and more fashionable than me – and none of us are in fancy suits or even skirts.  We’re all wearing various versions of black pants, summer tops and strappy heels. I’ve got on a new cute clear chunky beaded necklace with a white tank layered under an Old Navy cardigan with my laptop in an old tattered Dell computer bag.  And now that I’m all grown up and I’m headed into the City that defines hustle and bustle, to do something important, I’m kind of disappointed.

It’s not all it was cracked up to be.

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