Not Actually Me. But Could Be.

Usually I bemoan the painful lack of fashion in the office (the office that style forgot) or whinge at my colleagues’ abject refusal to appreciate my colour blocking or tribal referencing. But today I rejoice, nay worship, at the high temple of faded grey t-shirts and black cords. For today I am Spare Changed to the max. Spare Change is the nickname I have in the office for the odd day I will come in dressed down. And I don’t do things by half. Dressed down ain’t flat shoes and simple basics. Dressed down is tracksuit bottoms, a hoodie, runners and sometimes, just sometimes, a slept-in t-shirt. Like an off-duty sleb in Tinsletown, minus the glamour. There are usually a set of circumstances that contribute to a Spare Change day…like the alarm clock not sounding off, the washing not done, rushing from the gym, rushing to the gym or sometimes, just not being bovvered. 

Today however, has really taken the biscuit. The whole pack in fact. The circumstances leading to this accelerated Spare Change progression began yesterday. Specifically at 8.47am yesterday when I was involved in a ruckus with some muck. I was cycling into work, minding my own business, when I got a double whammy of muck to the face and the bum. It was the Day of Biblical Rain. By the time I arrived in the office, I had a trail of mud snaking up both legs, front and back, all the way up my back. I was completely drenched – outwear, underwear, the whole frickin’ package. And I stayed like that the entire day. Mad, miserable and mucky. A heady combination. 

 

So today I was prepared. But what passes for necessary road armour out on the mean streets does not translate into acceptable office chic. I am wearing black, shiny tracksuit bottoms – shiny to stave off the rain, but alas flirting dangerously with PVC. The ends have a neat little elasticised function to prevent you from tripping over your Down Dog position or getting caught in the bike chain. But in the real world, it looks like I’m imitating the inner-city trousers-into-socks look. I have a Disneyland hoody (Tinkerbell if you must ask) from a family holiday circa 1995 replete with ripped pocket, ripped sleeve and ripped hood. I have a white t-shirt that’s more grey than white and my silver Aasics that look super nifty and high-end in the gym, but just look ridiculous under the glare of the fluorescent office lighting. 

I was thinking about bringing the change of clothes into the office, but then I just thought the guys wouldn’t care. Only I realise now that the veneer of indifference is really a mask of fear… in case I attempt to mug them in a dark alleyway after work.

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