Out of Uniform
EVERY YEAR, VOGUE TELLS ME, WOMEN GEAR UP FOR THE AUTUMN onslaught of new choices, new lengths and myriad directions in clothes to wear to work. I hear gears grinding and onslaughts colliding as fashion followers across America stock up on body-hugging satin blouses, mixed-plaid ensembles and knee-high suede boots.
Personally, my dress-for-success work wardrobe embraces fashion’s current mood of haute understatement. I work in a home office. Comfort is my guide; style, a strictly personal matter. I’ll let the commuter class chase down the reincarnated Ali McGraw-in-”Love Story,” long, lean ‘70s look. My throwback is to the ‘60s and Mary Tyler Moore as Laura Petrie. Leggings, tunic tops and comfortable shoes. Turtlenecks and a down vest when weather allows.
Elsa Klensch, are ya listenin’?
When assembling my professional vestments, I like to Keep It Simple, Stupid. No moving parts or complex rigging. Jewelry is optional. Zippers belong on hooded sweatshirts, not boots. Mizrahi, Versace and Karan are nice, but Banana Republic and Lady Footlocker are easy.
For the at-home worker, the mere act of dressing can be as important as what is worn. In lieu of a freeway drive, a change of outfits creates its own journey of separation from bed to desk, even if it’s only switching from the T-shirt you slept in to the T-shirt you work in.
I understand the writer John Cheever, while living and working in an apartment building in New York, dressed in a suit every day. He wore it for the length of the elevator ride down to the office space he rented in the basement boiler room. But the boiler room was hot, and he’d strip down to his civvies to write, then re-suit for the ascent home. Like his novels and short stories, his need to wear a suit was all in his head.
“The basic issue is of self-image,” says Sean, a writer friend and fellow home office worker. “I care about what I wear when I go out into the world. At home, it’s much more existential: How will what I wear affect my work?”
When he wants to give his journalistic efforts an edge, Sean will press his jeans. I put on shoes. Stiletto heels are more edge than I want. Reeboks do me just fine.
Donald, a stylish poet and novelist who has a collection of more than 200 perfume bottles in his writing den, has a definite dress code for the home office, mostly having to do with safety.
“Never wear a caftan,” he cautions. “They hook on doorknobs, and you’re always knocking over and breaking things.” Secondly, he says, “never type naked. You’ll sweat--and stick to your office chair--and it’s awful.”
Bridget never types in the nude. At least she doesn’t consider it nude. “I have something on, if it’s only jewelry.” Jody, who works half-days at home, says, “Never cinch your belt too tight.” I say, why bother with belts?
Vocal style becomes as important as clothing style for the home office worker. “Make sure your phone message doesn’t sound like you’re sitting around in your underwear,” advises Bill, who often works at home in his underwear. His new fall wardrobe consists of nine pairs of Hanes white cotton briefs bought at a discount outlet. Bill’s only clothing rule is to have a robe nearby. He has two--lightweight for summer, heavy cotton for winter--and no qualms about answering the door midafternoon in one. Mike Ovitz never drops by for a visit, he says, adding, “I don’t care what the Federal Express and UPS guys think.”
William Thackeray wrote that “bravery never goes out of fashion,” but the all-day-robe look would never work for me. Back in less enlightened times, it used to be grounds for institutionalizing women. I can hear Laura Petrie’s high-pitched stutter as she tries to convince Rob that her coffee-stained chenille wrap isn’t the sign of a debilitating depression.
This year I’ll be updating my answering machine message to reflect the latest fashion elements in my voice. You know, the slim, snug, pumpkin-colored flare-legged thing. Hip-huggers always sounded better than they looked, anyway.
