The Work Sweatshirt

I am not a power suit wearing kind of working mom. No, not even close. Definitely more function than form here. I like to be dressed for comfort and fast movements and you just can’t do that in heels, well, at least I can’t do that in heels. I would love to feel confident and Super Womanly in even the stubbiest of heels but it just ain’t happening. I need to be able to kick some ass should the occasion arise and you just can’t do that if you fall over before you get to your target.

And it’s winter. While it might be technically OK for the undergrads bopping around my office to wear black leggings and boots with the shortest of shirts, someone needs to explain the terms opaque, sheer and translucent to a few of them. No, I require pants of a sturdy fabric and preferably stain resistant  (this more often than not equals jeans) and boots. Because for three months out of the year, I give up and put my super trendy (only to me) hiking sandals away.

The point? The point is I still have not grown accustomed to my post-second-baby body. It’s not extra weight, I have disgustingly lost more than I gained and while I would love to gloat and flaunt this fact, I am just not comfortable. My chest is still large with lactation and any of you who have done this will know that nursing bras wouldn’t support a cotton ball if the world depended on it. So on the days I go to work, I employ the cover as much of me as I can style of attire. This morning in my sleep deprived state I ignored the single digit temps and left home with a t-shirt on (and

My heart belongs to you, O breathable footwear

My heart belongs to you, O breathable footwear

pants, I did manage clean pants) and only realized the consequences of my mistake when it was too late to go back home and put on something warmer. My car contains many things, I could definitely survive in it for a long time should the need arise but on this particular morning it only contained one warmer article of clothing and that happened to be a safety orange hooded sweatshirt. In the hopes of keeping my flexible employment situation, I felt that this might be pushing the envelope of professionalism a tad. BUT – huzzah! I work for a university so university apparel is always acceptable workplace attire, right? Right. SO a quick buzz through the bookstore and I was set, I now had a “work sweatshirt.” It had a collar and everything. I realized only late in the day I looked like I was dressed to coach a women’s basketball game. Meh.

And now for a bit of feminist musings: What’s wrong with a “work sweatshirt?” Nothing I say to you and all the men in my department who can don nice looking but very comfortable tops supporting the university while I still feel that women are expected to dress in uncomfortably nice clothes and that my (nice and clean) pants and sweat shirt are not seen as dressy on me as they would on my male counterparts. So – that’s all I am going to say about that.

Two things happened during the purchase of this sweat shirt that made me smile. One, the book store manager deemed me mature enough to confide a “kids these days!!!” comment in me AND tried to convince me that my size medium fancy sweatshirt would be too large for me. Thank you book store manager lady, thank you. I have no problem being taken out of the “kids these days” column and put in to the petite and mature adult column. Thank you. Little did she know I was hiding my ginormous and now leaking (reason number two for needing to purchase a shirt on the way to work) milk jugs under a skillfully arranged scarf. My husband later referred to this as “jug smuggling” while chatting online while at work and I nearly peed which would have required me to then go purchase fresh trousers to get through the rest of the work day. This would have just been too much.

So what have we learned here, today?

  1. Hiking sandals go with anything, yes even power suits. (do not question this, just be confident, no one will ask why).
  2. You too can have a “work sweat shirt”  – just be confident
  3. Jug smuggling – ‘nuff said
  4. Be confident.

Why don’t I know how to cook meatloaf?

I know a lot of things, but I cannot remember how to make meatloaf, or mac and cheese (yes out of a box) or that really yummy rice and cream of mushroom soup or anything simple and of the comfort food variety. Ok, I can make spaghetti without looking up a recipe, but that’s about it. Why? Why can I not remember how to make meatloaf? I mean it’s meat, in a loaf, that’s about it. EVERY. TIME. I have to look up the recipe, every time. It’s the same with

Not THAT Meat Loaf

making hardboiled eggs. I am convinced things like everyday recipes, social security numbers, children’s birthdays (yes, don’t judge) and the time you scheduled for parent teacher conferences are never going to be remembered or stored conveniently for recall because at least for me, I know the words to every song every played on the radio. This amazingly useful skill (if you happen to be a bar singer), I’m convinced is why I cannot remember anything actually useful in life. I have to text my mother every time I want to cook meatloaf, or chili (it’s just a bunch of cans, dump in crock pot, viola! Seriously, WHY?) or the cornbread she makes with her chili. Yes, I’ve written them down but while recalling the awesome lyrics to an obscure Fleetwood Mac song, I have forgotten where I put the damn recipes. I cannot download these lyrics, I can’t seem to file them in archives in the back where I can forget about them for awhile…just hasn’t happened. Someday, someday it will be useful. I am convinced someday I will get on that show with Wayne Brady, which is probably not on anymore (we don’t have cable) and I’ll totally win. I always won at home. The kicker? I can’t sing for beans. I can’t even sing in the key of Me. It’s bad. My sister-in-law actually threw up in her mouth a little while on a road trip with me and my daughter as I croooooned away to our awesome road trip playlist. I still haven’t forgiven her, everyone in her family is grotesquely musically gifted. I married in, it didn’t transfer. My husband now at least allows me to sing at church, as politely as he can. He weakly claims I am “getting a little better..”