- At the end of the day, it's still just a pair of jeans, kids. You can call it denim. You can weave it from the left, weave it from the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. But it's jeans. Really. And we're all still the fourth grader whose parents made us buy the ugly ones from Sears. That's what we're trying to work through when we're adults with the critical choices of acid wash, sand blasting and distressed cuffs on our hands.
- Clothing that comes from the lingerie department is underwear/sleepwear. Only your bathroom mirror, your mother and the person to whom you're currently attached need to see these items. I don't care if you bought it with your discount. I don't care if you're "wearing the brand." If you're wearing pajamas in my office, you're coming to work in your underwear. It's just that simple.
- Some men like pleats on the front of their khaki pants. It's a sickness, but it's what they've chosen for themselves. And while I'll give you that it's an unspeakable horror, can we all agree that it's not an infraction that's greater than or equal to committing genocide in the Third World? Let's just love the sinner but hate the sin on this one, alright? The war crimes tribunal in The Hague thanks you.
If any of my Gappy McGappertons are reading this, you know that leaving my peoples is like wearing pleats. Unthinkable. Even on the craziest day ... and heaven knows there were more than we'd imagine ... I worked with the smartest, most talented, most committed and just plain funny as hell people. It's been a pleasure beyond measure.
But I have to admit: I'm craving me some coffee.
2 comments:
This place will not be the same without you, my love.
Gappy R. McGapperton
As a Gappy McGapperton who has sat next to you for 5 years AND logged miles back and forth from Bad Coffee Establishment, I would like to point out.....there were many days where I was wearing underwear to work.....and you were none the wiser.
I shall miss you my friend, my boss, my Work Husband.
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