@postaday 88; #postaday2011
I have a manager I like to refer to as my Fashion Goddess, someone who gently gives me tips about my appearance. I appreciate it. I’m always a little off kilter. It’s OK, that’s just me. If I resisted, I’m sure she would stop, but I actually do my best to execute her advice.
So, now that you know I’m a work in progress, and that to some extent I’m someone’s project, you should understand that I’m always aware of the spinach in your teeth, the lint on your jacket, your frayed hem, that your slip, your bra strap, your little doodad that keeps your shirt on your hanger is flapping in the wind.
I cannot resist the urge to help, especially if I like you. I’ve been known to stop people in the middle of an intersection to tuck in a jacket’s interfacing. I’ve pointed soundlessly at my chin to try to clue someone in to the spaghetti sauce on their own. If you’re with me, you’ll exit that elevator sharp and fresh.
I think it comes from the time I spent in the military. A shirt’s button flap is always aligned with a belt’s buckle and a pant’s fly. It’s called the Gig Line. There are no stray threads, as they are trimmed off. Creases are sharp, shoes polished, nary a hair is out of place (mine was short through basic training, thank goodness).
So what if you and I had a conversation on our way to work and you get to the office and realize you’ve got toilet paper dragging from your shoe? Either I didn’t notice or I don’t care about you. But here’s the deal: If your fly is down and you’re a guy, all bets are off. I never get those signals right, and it always gets me in trouble. You’re on your own.