I worked in a very conservatively dressed office once. And by that I mean one of the guys wore khakis and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt every single day (button downs and long sleeves in colder months and short sleeves in warmer months)– there was absolutely no variation from his program. He always looked neat, but the same. Khaki was not a huge fan of my wardrobe. And by that I mean he hated it and was fairly vocal and made very funny comments often.
At the time, my general workwear consisted of a variety of sweaters, and slacks in black, super black and mostly blackish, and my very pointy patent leather workhorse boots. The booties had kitten heels, were easy to walk in, and matched my whole work wardrobe. I wore my pants especially long those days with a slight flare, so if you happened to look down, all you could really make out were the points on my shoes. My friend Tracey dubbed kicks like those “roach killers” for obvious reasons.
So I walked into the office one morning, bright and eager, and bumped into Khaki in the hallway right in front of the entrance to my office. He waved hi and then looked down at my especially pointy boots and said, “Sorry about that house that fell on your sister.” I burst out laughing so hard that I literally dropped to the carpeted floor and crouched in the fetal position with tears streaming down my face. Khaki didn’t even laugh out loud, but smiled big, nodded to acknowledge my hysteria, and then took a giant step over my entire body, like I was fashion roadkill or something, which made me laugh even harder. (Remember when Carrie Bradshaw fell on the runway in those too high heels? Sort of like that, but not.)
Another day I came into the office with a denim shirt that had a bit of a primary-colored crazy geometric pattern in patches on the front. Well Khaki just went wild singing the theme song from the Partridge Family, “C’mon Get Happy” because he was convinced that I was wearing the signature Partridge Family bus right on my shirt. (Meanie!!)
Back when Bendel’s was in her heyday and sold real clothes and not cookie cutter striped accessories and cheesy costume jewelry, I would browse the racks in search of a treasure. One such hunt took place a few years ago during mid-August, prime time for coat shopping. I was walking through jackets when it caught my well-trained eye– a black wool three quarter length, fully embroidered number with a bold pattern of flowers—magnificent against the black. My heart was pounding. I lingered awhile in anoraks surveying the scene before I meandered into the serious coat section. I pretended to casually give it the once over. I slowly found my size and could tell from the A-line cut that it would fit. It was about 87 degrees outside so I had to layer a sweater over my tank to make sure the coat could handle a little bulk come winter. I posed in the three-way mirror admiring every possible angle. I closed my eyes tightly and prayed for a price I could afford. The plain white tag hung gingerly from the sleeve. A scary number was inked on the ticket. But how could I not? So I bought the fabulous coat.
It hung unworn for the next five months. Occasionally I would open the hall closet door, gently peel off the protective wrap, try it on and swirl around my bedroom. But the actual unveiling had to feel right. When a mild 45-degree day in January caught me by surprise, the time had finally come. I based my head to toe look on complementing the coat, including the roach killer boots of course. I didn’t get five feet out the front door of my apartment when a woman in the elevator grabbled my arm and said, “That coat is fabulous!” I smiled. Seven more women that day said exactly the same thing to me: one on the fancy shoe floor at Saks, three at the take-out place during lunch, a woman on the subway, and two randoms on the street. I had a smile on my face the entire day.
Khaki had been traveling on business that week so when he entered the office after lunch, I was just getting back from a meeting and my coat was still on. He walked right up to me and did a complete and obviously slow circle around me, dragging his bag behind him and with his hand thoughtfully grabbing his chin, a serious look on his scrunched face. I was already laughing. “Well, how did the audition go for your part in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?”
Khaki and I no longer work together, but when I’ve seen him over the years at various business events, he’s always friendly to me, just not to my clothes. I would eventually come to understand that like Khaki, most heterosexual males in chinos would have that very same thumbs down reaction to a large portion of my wardrobe– obvious reinforcement that I had picked some winners!
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