Just over two months ago I unexpectedly found myself without the thing I hadn’t been without since I was fifteen years young… a job. After nine years with a company the time had come to part ways and so I counted my pennies, counted my blessings, held my nose, and jumped into the somewhat dingy and fairly deep pool of stay-at-home-motherhood, at least for a little while. But if you know me you know and if you don’t then let me school you with another uninteresting bit of useless Eve-formation: I’ve never been a big fan of the water.
Work and the working world is a huge part of who I am. My mother never not worked. She’s on the Eve of Seventy and still gets up at 3:30 am every day, has her breakfast, makes her coffee, and sets out for the charter school in Philadelphia where she works in their kitchen. My mother is a lunch lady and when she’s not a lunch lady any longer she’ll be a cashier or an order taker or a clerk of some sort because she’ll never, ever not work; a characteristic I have inherited from her to both my benefit (in my mind) and my detriment (in the minds of others). I’ve been criticized in the past for stating that I get fulfillment from a job that is different from the fulfillment I get from being a mother or a wife, but what some may not understand is that it’s the sole portion of my pie-compared life that doesn’t directly relate to others, which is why I am so attached to it. In other words, for the most part, work is all about me and what I’m capable of and what I’m doing and what I can learn and how I adapt and what problems I solve and how I solve them and how I am rewarded through pay and bonuses and criticism and praise. The pressure of ruining someone’s young life because I didn’t handle a situation properly is off the table – saved for the motherhood portion. The potential to hurt the person who loves me more than anyone else isn’t an option – that’s for the spouse portion. If I fuck up in the career portion then I fuck myself up and only myself up and so not doing so allows me to both admire and respect ME so that I may be able to nurture properly the other equally important portions of my pie. If I can like me I can like you, see how that works? And I want to like you… I really do want to like you.
Which brings me to my weapon of choice as it pertains to the things I need to be a successful super heroine in the working world: The Suit.
Where would Clark Kent be without his suit under his… well, suit? And what on earth would Morgan Freeman get excited about in The Dark Knight? In a country with so many sweatpants, fanny packs, and hoodies embellishing the backs, limbs, and asses of its citizens, it is The Suit that still stands as a symbol of power for a financially stable world, and for me and quite possibly a handful of others, below are a few overly exaggerated and somewhat dramatic reasons why.