So, yesterday morning: I’m all packed up with my computer and backpack, just about to walk out the door to work at my friend Denny’s office.
[ Can’t really work at the house, too many bodies around, including: Annie, the two kids Becca (4y7m) and Benjamin (2y3m), Annie’s 16yo daughter Jang, Jang’s 18yo husband Man , Annie’s 17yo son James, and the usual assortment of friends and neighbors who descend upon our place to eat, chat, hang-out, and nap. ]
I’m wearing my usual outfit except that since it was Saturday and Denny’s staff would probably only work a half-day, I’ve selected a clean, ironed NY Yankees T-shirt, instead of one of my usual work-week, button-down, short-sleeved plaid-print shirts.
I give the kids a kiss goodbye and as I’m walking out the door, in an suspicious, accusatory tone, Becca asks me, “Where are you going?”.
“To the office to work,” I reply.
“Wearing that shirt?” she asks.
“Yes, why not?”, I say.
Becca is having non of it: “Not good. Go back and change your shirt.”
You gotta understand, we are not talking about a suit and tie and wingtip shoes. Work attire here is simply a clean polo or short-sleeve shirt, a pair of Dockers or military-style shorts, and sandals (Remember, the shoes are not important since everyone takes them off anyway when they enter a building]). The only difference between work and casual is really the shirt.
Yet, somehow Becca’s figured it out on her own and she’s calling me on it. Amazing!