So I stroll in to work on Good ‘Ol Casual Friday. It’s the day in which we are all cool, but I’m totally un-hip and not with it; white in the most alabaster sort of a way. (Except for the neck; that has regretfully taken too many direct photon-torpedo hits from the hot Alabama sun.)
Casual Day is the day when everyone comes into the office dressed like they supposedly would around the house. It’s supposed to ratchet down the tension and make us all feel at home. I felt plenty at home yesterday. My pay check posted. That’s all the comfort I need to receive from the work environment.
Casual Day grates for some reason. Work is not supposed to be casual. There is supposed to be at least some gravamen of import to our presence there. I’ve got a sick 4-Year Old at home I could pouring a cup of juice for. Instead I’m sitting here all casual.
So just what does the casual Repair_Man_Jack select as his sartorial statement of chill. We start with the ever-proletariat pair of jeans. No, not the ones I tore the knees out of in a football game and do yard work in. That would actually be casual as opposed to casual. No, I wear the carefully washed and cared for blue-collar working clothes.
The shirt expresses my utter contempt for the whole casual look. It rates “cheese-dog” by Jimmy Buffet standards. I start with the orange background that not even Stevie Wonder could fail to notice. We’re talking Piña Colada Puke Orange. Atop this vibrant background, I overlay a flotilla of blue-green koi and lush, verdant palm trees (Me so sowwy, I forgot the barf alert).
Casual Day cacophonies destroy the rudiment rhythms of a smooth and efficient work place. It is the anathema to professional deportment. I nearly want to laugh as I explain to the OSD guys in Versailles Upon The Potomac that I’ll get right back to them on their Spruill Chart after I finish running it past the dude dressed up like Flo Rida down the hall in Budget.
Ah, Casual Day. The day our security personnel actually show up for work dressed like Jello Biafra’s Suede-Denim Secret Police. I hate the entire institution. People sense this irony and push a little bit.
A guy where I used to work came in wearing the 70’s Leftover “Keep On Truckin’” T-Shirt to brief the COL in charge of his division one day. It sux when your least subordinate employee on site has more annual leave than days left until retirement…
Perhaps, as a gesture of exasperated protest, I’ll come in next Friday with my Brooks Brothers ensemble. That or just a dignified Oxford with a Bear Bryant hat. Something that will stick out like a herniated disc amongst the Pagan Biker Meth Lab Look that seems ubiquitous amongst the fine and respectable civil servants upon whom we all get to bestow our tax dollars.
So why do I truly hate Casual Day. It’s the existential inautheticity that it bestows upon my daily sojourn away from the people I love and truly care for. It intensifies my whole sense that some days I’m just Homer Simpson bumbling around in the nuclear plant. Milan Kundera referred to this pathetic, whiney sense of self-loathing as The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Which gives me an idea…
For next Fridays’s Casual Day, I’ll hold my very own Pretentiousness Day. I’ll bring Gibbons, I’ll bring in Sartre, heck I’ll drag in two or three of my old tomes from Buckowski. I’ll put them prominently on my desk and stare at them with artificially deep thoughtfulness. I’ll even stack them in the corridor so that people have to see all the brilliant things that RMJ reads studiously in his down time. That should piss off slacker nation but good.
If that doesn’t work….If that doesn’t work, I go all out. It’s time for Spicoli’s revenge!
X-Posted At: THE MINORITY REPORT