My husband Steve & I are about to head out on a week-long road trip. I'm looking forward to the uninterrupted time, the adventure of setting out together, still having fun 25 years later, all that stuff. But the thing I'm most excited about?
Not having to suit up for work.
Let me be clear about this. "Suit up" at my workplace means nice jeans and a clean shirt. I haven't suffered with pantyhose or pointy shoes since returning to corporate life seven years ago. And for that perk I am grateful.
But having freelanced for the preceding 18 years, I've been spoiled by the anarchic luxury of working in my pajamas. (As a point of fact, after a year or two of working at home, my street clothing and jammies had magically morphed into one comfy couture.)
Back in those days, I was who I was, and my clients and colleagues didn't gave a damn what I was wearing, or if I had good make-up, or if I colored my hair. People knew me by my telephone voice, my emails, and the quality of my creative work. For all anybody knew, I was decked out in J. Jill separates sporting a perfect manicure, when actually, I may or may not have combed my hair when I got out of bed.
I guess I'm missing some critical dress-up DNA. And in its place on one of my X chromosomes is an affinity for flannel, sport fleece, and elastic waistbands.
For the record, I really do enjoy being a girl.
It's just that I enjoy my jammies more.
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