Hangnail of the Mind

I no longer work in a nylon/suit/heals environment. My previous job discouraged slacks on women (I know, unbelievably archaic). So I entered this job with a closet full of dresses and skirts, and my old holey jeans. It strikes me I shouldn’t wear jeans on casual day if there are in such a state of decrepitude that I have to be careful of the color of my underwear choice. I quickly ran out and bought a couple of pairs of chinos and casual shirts.

Months later, I’m simply no longer so concerned about wearing my skirts, heals and nylons. I keep my knees crossed and covered and we’re all good. Hate to see all those wonderful J. Peterman things going to waste.

But what do you wear with dress pants in the winter? A new problem for me. I have to walk up this vortex to my office four times a day, where wind speeds can practically knock you over. One of the guys recently explained to me that all facilities in the state are designed to torture the prisoners by taking advantage of the prevailing winds in their orientation. Not bad in the heat of summer, but deadly in the winter.

SO, I wear dress socks. I had to go buy some of those, too. I own recreational socks in orange stripes and other such colors too irreverent for prison. In the dim light of my closet, before the even dimmer dawn, navy looks much like black - EVEN if you carefully check to avoid this style faux pas. I should just throw the damn blue ones out; I don’t even own any navy.

Here I am at work, obsessing about my black boots, blue socks and black pants. It’s like a hangnail of the mind. The secretary, tiny Dustie, told me to get over myself or take the socks off. I tried that. Pale green-hued skin between the two blacks was not an improvement. I will not even mention the ankle hair that hadn’t been shaved in a week.

Let it go.

We’re in group, nearing the end of our hour. One of my guys is agonizing about an interaction with his wife on the phone where he was not reaching his goal of absolute truth with her. I empathetically point out, “Mr. A., you are making change, and you backed up and corrected yourself. No need to beat yourself up.”

“That’s what she said,” he returns without conviction.

“I don’t expect perfection from you, only from myself,” I quip.

Mr. H. leaps in with, “And we know you’re not perfect, you have on blue socks.”

My casually crossed leg with my foot contemplatively bouncing in the air slams down to the floor. Damn his soul for noticing. “That’s it, group’s over, all of you…OUT.”

And we boil out of the group room, everybody laughing.