Love Those Rules!

While reading this blog, I discovered the shoes. I won’t lie. I don’t understand these shoes. I don’t know how I’d get into these shoes. I don’t know how I would walk in these shoes. And I am absolutely sure that I have nothing that would go with these shoes.

But I want these shoes.

Why? You are screaming right now that there is a reason this blogger has chosen to point out the fugly bedazzled gladiator wedges.

I understand this. I do. And even though I have a zero on the world’s scale of fashion sense, I get that these would not be a good look for me—although it might make me close to human size while standing on them, so they might be worth consideration just for that.

No, I’m not proclaiming the beauty of these shoes. I am, however, proclaiming the insanity that these shoes would evoke at work.

I work in a fairly conservative environment, and I am doing battle against the evil forces of the dress code gods. It’s not that I always lose these battles, but well… ok, I do always lose these battles. And I’m not a fashion person, but the specific rules are silly. I get that we can’t wear shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear formal/suit shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear tight knee length pants to work. I get that I can’t wear a track suit. But the Capri pants rule made me cranky.

At first it was no Capri pants—every store had them out here, but we weren’t allowed to wear them. The staff got nowhere, but some of the lawyers managed to make headway. Except now there is a length rule. Seriously. Someone had the time to ponder the appropriate length of the Capri pants. One inch above the ankle apparently means business. An inch and a half above the ankle is a scandal. I am not kidding. I got called out for a pair of Ann Taylor (you know how daring those clothes are) Capri pants because they were nearly an inch and a half above my ankle. When I’m feeling particularly persnickety, I wear them anyway. It’s like my little dare—my little attempt at rebellion.

That’s right—this is an example of my rebellion. Some people drink heavily, do drugs, do boys 20 years younger—I wear Capri pants that are an inch and half above my ankle.

Not surprisingly, there are also shoe rules. Although when first announced, I do believe the shoe rules could only be accurately interpreted by NASA scientists. There were rules about wedges, to cork or not to cork, and something diabolical involving an open toe meaning no open back, and vice versa.

People, I leave for work at around 6:15 to 6:30am. I’m lucky if my clothes don’t clash and are on right-side-out. If I have make-up on, it is a banner day. If jewelry becomes involved it should be noted on a national level—some sort of holiday or celebration involving fireworks would be most appropriate. I do not have time (nor the wits) to examine my shoes to make sure they don’t violate any of the 3,000 shoe rules on the dress code.

This brings us back to those shoes. While obviously inappropriate for all things relating to my office, they do not technically violate any written rules—good taste, perhaps, but no written rules. HA! I need to find these shoes.

Also not in the written rules—tutus. They say nothing about wearing ballet tutus to work. You know I’m done with the place the day I show up in those shoes, and pink tulle.

But for the moment, I jest. I love these rules that were clearly defined by people far smarter than I. Please don’t fire me.

Kate