Shit Happens At The Office - Wardrobe Malfunction

Any working mother will tell you that we’re always rushing.  Trying to fit so many things into every minute of every day…running around with a broom stuck up your arse so you can sweep the floor whilst you run; a sponge in your hand wiping fingerprints off the walls.  It’s crazy how busy our house gets.  You know that something has got to give and usually, for me, it’s my appearance. 

I hastily apply my makeup and often poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand so when I panic scrunch my eye, I get a giant black star circling it and then the whole freaking lot gets washed away in a flood of tears and I end up going to work looking like I’ve got pink eye (conjunctivitis); my eyeliner is rushed and appears thick and nowhere near the line of my eye so it appears that I’ve channelled Alice Cooper; my hair frequently has had a hissy fit and stands out on end in a pubic mass rioting all over my head like a bad 80s perm.  Of late, it’s been my clothing, although this is not a new phenomenon. There have been times when I’ve hastily dressed and neglected to ensure both breasts were inside my tank top (it’s ok, they were encased in a bra) and turned up to the office with one of the puppies running around the front yard.  I’ve dressed in the dark and rocked up in one dark brown heel and one black heel, both of completely different designs.  I called it  ‘mixing it up’… it was actually just ‘fucking it up’ but my colleagues went with it.  I’ve had a shirt that I had inadvertently worn inside out but somehow managed to completely button up (that’s a skill in itself); I’ve also buttoned shirts incorrectly so part of my breast and belly were on display with the mismatched buttoning (gifted?).  I’ve worn a pair of earrings to the office then flipped out when I discovered one was missing… then discovered that I had actually threaded two earrings through one hole.  What a tool!

At the moment my wardrobe is in desperate need of an update and overhaul but I absolutely LOATHE clothes shopping because every time I find something I like, I try it on and find it was designed for a stick insect with no tits or arse or it hugs my backside and thighs so tightly that I look like I’m trying out for a Nicky Minaj music video (I’m sure I could make his Anaconda want some of my buns, hon). Department store lighting and mirrors make me look like a fucking toad!  I stand in front of the mirror and think “yep, that fits beautifully” then I look to the left and right and catch sight of my arse and scream!  Where the fuck did all of that come from?  I hang the goddamned things back onto the coat hangers and storm out of the store with a view to make carbohydrates my enemy and start counting calories.  Then I drink half a bottle of wine with dinner, which I have devoured like a starving animal.

About six months ago I started walking about 9kms a day and have recently lost a few kilos as a result.  All of my skirts are now too big and too long and hang on my hips in a stupid way that doesn’t make me look slimmer but like a complete dork (perhaps I should get some fur-lined clogs to complete the look).  I keep putting off shopping but my wardrobe is sending me distress signals that are becoming embarrassing.

Shit happens to me extraordinarily often and as a result I take precautions.  I once witnessed a female colleague fall backwards over a chair at a morning tea and as her skirt flew up we all saw her reforestation project fluffing around knickers before her ankles ended up behind her ears and we  saw her big white knickers wedged halfway up her hail damaged arse.  I vowed then and there that shit like that is NEVER going to happen to me – so I wear bike shorts under my skirts.  Well thank fuck I do! 

Just last week as I was walking from the photocopier back to my desk, the zipper on my skirt gave with a dramatic ‘pop’ and with the waist being so loose, there was nothing to hold it up so it shimmied down my legs to pool around my ankles.  I was the only person in the office at the time, however, there were about ten people having a discussion outside the glass office door and many of them saw it.  I was standing there in very short bike shorts and high heeled knee length boots – like a pole dancer without a pole.  There was a six second brain fart where I stood there in shocked horror looking back at them before the lightening synapse sparked the appropriate reaction.  I tried to run behind the reception desk to hide my state of undress but tripped over the fallen skirt and executed an amazing impersonation of a baby giraffe learning to walk.  Yanking the skirt up, I opened the desk drawer and searched for a bulldog clip to hold the whole mess together.

The boss returned later and asked what was with the bulldog clip.  Not a fashion statement!  I relayed the events – he was grateful he’d been absent.  I threw the offending item of betrayal into the bin the moment I returned home.  The following day I called the boss to ask when he was coming back into the office as I had some documents for him to sign and he sheepishly admitted that he was on his way home.  He’d torn the arse out of his suit pants when he climbed into the car after his most recent appointment.  This made me laugh - Shit Happened to him too – transference?

Then, just this morning as I was exiting the car in the underground car park at the office, I stepped out of the car and my heel caught in the car floor mat.  I stumbled forward and in an attempt to break my fall and stop my teeth from smashing on the concrete floor (and because this panic action was more like thrusting my legs into the vertical splits than a delicate leap), I tore the split in the back of my skirt all the way up to the zip (which was only ten centimetres below the top of my arse).  Thankful for the bike shorts, I took the stairs in lieu of the mirrored elevator (I didn’t need an audience for my humiliation, looking at ‘all that arse’).  Immediately upon entering the office, I grabbed the stapler from the Reception desk, walked briskly to the bathroom and stapled that shit right back up again.  So here I sit as I write this, in a skirt that has been stapled all the way up, the sharp ends a constant reminder that no matter where or when, shit just keeps happening to me.