Comfort Clothes

I just got home from work and a couple of post work birthday beers for a friend and then, ah, I got home and pulled off my work clothes and put on lovely, lovely sweatpants and giant ancient purple T-shirt and cozy hoodie. Ahhhhhhhh. There is nothing better than comfort clothes. I like my job, which makes me lucky and one of the few, even if after a month the novelty is beginning to wear off and I'm kind of back to that "working for a living sucks; jobs, meh" thing. Probably, though, I'd still be totally enthusiastic if it wasn't for the bra factor. When you work, if you are female, you must wear a bra. This is the law, and if you don't obey it the bra police will come and take you away to bra jail, or your kids will taunt you and frankly I'm not sure which is worse. At any rate, I went through a joyous braless year of unemployment, during which I sometimes looked at my laundromat pile of sweat pants and giant hideous antique T-shirts and thought "Uh oh. I have kind of let things go, haven't I?" but nonetheless kept right on wearing my lovely, cozy, repulsively grotesque clothing because, you know, what the fuck? I wasn't working and the special torture which is the brassiere is reserved for the gainfully employed - just a little thorn in their sides, bless their hearts.

Now, though, I'm back in that 9-5 world about which Dolly Parton and Loni Anderson in their glory have sung and acted so eloquently. (Huh. According to IMDB I'm misremembering Loni Anderson as having anything to do with the 9 - 5 franchise. Well, go figure. I had this large breasted vision in my head - kind of terrifying, actually.) Now, Dolly needs a bra; I grant you that. I could see where support might be vital there. But I, who am artistically under endowed, as once semi-affectionately explained by my evil ex: "You know. Artist tits. All you artsy intellectual girls got them tiny titties," I, unlike Dolly, do not in actual fact need a bra for anything but camouflage. Yet I must wear one, because you just have to when you work, or else it's wrong, and against the American way, or something evil whose depths I have never plumbed, because I give in and put the damn thing on every fucking morning. And it's the fastest thing to leave my body as soon as I get home again.