Standing in the elevator of my office building, surrounded on all sides by full-length reflections of myself, I had a sudden revelation:
I dress like a frump.
Only for work. Of course.
I dress like a 45 yo frump.
A 45 yo work frump.
I walk out onto the streets at lunch, and the whole of commercial Hong Kong turns into Frump Town.
All the dudes look identical in their pastel-coloured shirts and dark pants and all the females look identical in their pastel-coloured shirts or knitted tops and dark skirts/pants.
It’s scary. Hordes of us spill out across a zebra crossing like herds of corporate cows crossing a stream to feed.
It’s like George Orwell’s 1984 albeit with a bit of fashion sense.
I look like a frump at work because:
- my mom, for reasons only moms will know, loves buying work skirts for me. And all of them are past knee lenght.
- they are all past knee length because I have a big arse and the only way I can stuff my underside into any of them is to buy them a size or two too big.
- so the waist-bit of the skirts end up resting on my hips.
- and the above-knee bits end up resting below my knees.
- also because work clothes are expensive.
- and they wear out very quickly.
- which, to a normal girl, means an excuse to buy more work clothes.
- but which, to me, means it’s futile to buy more work clothes.
- i have a few work tops i love.
- and i wear them ALL the time.
- with those frump-skirts.
- there. That’s why I look like a frump.
I obsessively separate work attire from normal attire.
I will get out of my way to not wear work attire on a non-work day.
It’s too painful to be reminded.
But I think I do need to do something about my frump-work wardrobe.
I need to elevate myself beyond Frump Status.
Like wearing a pencil skirt with a slit up the side of a thigh.
Hookers are not frumps right? At least there are people I can look up to.