Nine to fivever.

It’s like I’m Dolly Parton, but without the boobs. Or the hair. Or the voice. Or the money. Or the fame. 

It’s like I’m not Dolly Parton. 

In my extensive twenty-nine years, one piece of advice I’ve heard over and over is, “Dress for the job you want.” On a practical level this makes sense. If you want to work on Wall Street, wear a $5,000 ensemble with pinstripes. If you want to train dolphins, wear a wetsuit. If you want to be a stuntman, wear body pads, and a lot of them. If you want to coach women’s basketball, dress like that. So as one may deduct through these blog posts, I simply want to be everything. I want to be a pop star, an art teacher, Batman, Justin Timberlake’s señorita, Tolstoy, an Original Gangsta, and so on. It’s a long list of characters to maintain, which is why I have to play the New York hustle game, and by hustle game I mean I have to keep a day job. Because these duds don’t buy themselves, nah mean?

Nevertheless, it can be difficult not to alarm coworkers with my outfits, so every time I begin a new job I have a strategy of gradually introducing them to the eccentricity of my wardrobe. I warm them up to my personality so that my quirky outfits will make a little more sense, and after about a month of prepping it’s straight to the jumpsuits. In my experience people have always been on board with every wackadoo thing I wear, which is fortunate, because at this point it would take a small fortune to revamp my look. Not to mention I don’t have the closet space, as previously discussed. 

But every once in a while a situation arises in which I have to keep it profesh and roll into the office dressed as if I know what I’m doing. Unfortunately, when the bulk of your clothes are embellished with rhinestones or sequins, this becomes somewhat of a challenge, but I like to do what I can. Unfortunately on top of that, doing what I can still ends up involving spandex, but you know: life.

Always keep your composure. Never let ‘em see you cry. The number one rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club. It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight. ‘Cuz baby you’re a firework. Are you talkin’ to me? Say ‘allo to my lil friend. All other generic bad-assery.

Mango blazer. J Crew tee and belt. Primark socks. Spandex skirt that I purchased at a Williamsburg boutique on accident. No one ask how I managed that, just accept it as a fact and we can all move on with our lives. 

Just stretching the ol’ hips because I’ve sat in the same chair for nine plus hours, five days a week, for the past four and a half years, so I pretty much no longer have tendons.

This is as far as I can lunge now.

Walk it out, walk it out.

Me in my natural state of being tired all the time for no reason.

And that's about it. So remember, guys:

So I’ll probably catch y’all at my funeral.