Rumpled, but undaunted
Today I am wearing a kurta. It’s quite pretty – pink and stripy – and in my still-drunk state this morning, wearing it over jeans seemed like a good idea. It is Friday after all. But I’d forgotten about my colleague (the one with the matching shoes and handbags and underwear – and now, would you believe – colour co-ordinated spectacles). She looks every inch the business-woman. At least she hasn’t tried to make me admire her shoes yet today. I assume that this is because for the first time in a week she’s not wearing one of the eight pairs she bought recently on a work trip to New York.
“Ooh,†she cooed, as I walked into the meeting room. “That shirt would make a nice pair of pajamasâ€. My lovely boss took one look at me and said “Is that a comment on Rachie’s unprofessionalism?†Oh, happy day. Can I go home yet?
Now I feel rumpled and messy, and this is not helped by the presence of what looks like a large grease stain somewhere near the hem. It must have come from my lardy scrambled-egg-and-spinach-muffin breakfast.
So here I am, a professional, 30-something woman, trying to look the part, but failing. Today I have hair that, frankly, wouldn’t look amiss on a crazed, scimitar-wielding homicidal maniac, a long pink crumpled shirt with a stain on it, a big red spot on my cheek, and last night’s red wine still clinging grimly to my lips. The only way I have discovered to get it off is my scrubbing them with a toothbrush, but I was in a desperate state this morning, and couldn’t quite make the effort.
Still, it’s Friday, I’m about to have sushi for lunch and there is a plentiful supply of chocolate biscuits in the office biscuit tin. Things are never as bad as they seem.