Maybe it's just me, but every time I have to scour my wardrobe for something remotely biz-cazh, I have a small-scale identity crisis.
Today I gave a half hour presentation for my research methods class, but the writing the paper and the snazzy powerpoint and the research that went into it, let alone standing in front of the class, sweating like a televangelist; these were small matters compared to the way I feel clomping around in sensible flats and tailored trousers.
It's just that it seems like a joke. Like heels - why enslave myself in footwear that I can't wear riding my bike home drunk*? Part of me is still nine years old, playing Keep Away in six inches of backyard mud with my brother's friends. At heart, I'm still sixteen, cutting Suzy's hair in the garage with kitchen scissors. And, yes, I'm still nineteen, smoking pot out of a hollowed-out mango on a school
This is the girl who's never been on time to anything in her entire life. This is the girl who ducks behind a bush instead of waiting in line for the port-a-john. This is the girl who smuggles home beer from the wedding she bartended (but not without an accomplice). This is not a girl to saddle with responsibility. This is not a girl who gets things done.
This is a girl who "didn't hear her alarm".
And while I'm sure I'll get used to the way I look in business-casual, I certainly hope I'll never take myself seriously.
*I have tried this, it is not recommended.
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