Billy Jean is Not my Colleague

Today we interviewed a slate of job seekers for an office manager-type position at my place of employment. As my coworkers and I sat in our circle around the candidates during each interview, I noticed something that struck a bolt of fear deep in the soft cockles of my heart. Because there it was. A fashion combo only a partially blind, well-medicated mother could love.

White sweater, black pants, white socks, black loafers.

On me.

How could such a striped travesty happen, you ask? Let me explain. This morning I put on my white sweater and black pants and knee-high white socks because I figured I’d slip on my tall black boots and nobody would know I’d assembled an outfit an eight year-old with a head injury might appreciate. Instead, in my haste to leave the house, I stepped into my black loafers. My pants are long, I thought. No one will have to know my secret. Besides, the heels fell off both of my black boots two weeks ago. Which is worse? White socks with black loafers or no heels? I took my chances on the white socks with black loafers.

So imagine my chagrin when I noticed how prominently my bad fashion sense was on display to potential new colleagues as I sat there, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Perhaps I was trying to whip the air around me into a cloud that could conceal both my black and white barber pole outfit and my deep sense of shame. I can almost hear the job candidates later telling their spouse over a Swiss steak dinner, “Gee, I didn’t know I might share an office with a Michael Jackson impersonator.”