I must have missed the memo. Today was casual day and I’m sitting here in my work clothes while all around me my colleagues are swanning about in jeans and jumpers.
Neat casual I’d call it, that well thought through combination of matchy matchy neatness.
Sometimes it’s harder to dress down than up. Because, let’s be honest, casual doesn’t really mean casual, does it.
No one wants to see their work mates in their tracky dungers and round-the-house jumpers.
What to wear on casual day presents a real conundrum… you want to look hip, happening, but you really don’t want to taint your favourite duds with the whiff of work.
I don’t want workplace memories for my glad rags.
Remember casual days at high school? They were fraught with danger.
You were dancing with the devil on those days… wear the wrong thing and you could go the whole of high school and still not live it down.
The mid-90s at Catholic College Bendigo were a sheep shed of Sportsgirl logo T-shirts and Mambo checked shirts, Blundstone or Doc Martin boots and just the appropriate amount of fray to the jeans.
I was still a few years off funding my own wardrobe, and mum refused to buy brand names… it was a great way to stand out, to wear something with the logo as the tag and not the tag line.
Eventually I wore those nameless clothes like a badge of honour… mum was right, and I would not be folding to the herd.
My boy had a casual day at school today, too. That, we did remember. Wearing uncool clothes is one thing, wearing your uniform on such days was hell.
(Just on that, did I ever tell you about the time I attended dress-up day, resplendent in my We Willy Winky gown… the day BEFORE dress-up day? I probably have, for that is the stuff of columns).
Anyway, this morning started with an argument, when the seven-year-old got out his favourite five-dollar Big W trackies for the occasion.
“Why don’t you wear your cargo pants?” I gently suggested. He dug his heels in.
My boy still loves superheroes on his jumpers and a draw string waist.
I tried to get him into skinny-leg jeans once and the look of disgust on his face was the one usually reserved for cauliflower.
We relented that shopping trip, and I bought him a pair of what I like to call “going out” trackies.
They were our compromise today, for I do want him to have some sense of dressing for the occasion.
But really, I’m just thankful we’re not living with a fussy pants.