Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, April 29, 1993 TAG: 9304290033
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Beth Macy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
For instance, I do almost all my writing in my pajamas, staring at my computer screen through dust-speckled, Coke-bottle eyeglasses.
This is just a slight downgrade from my usual at-work attire though, as any of my co-workers will tell you.
At home, I find my red-flannel ensemble to be particularly inspiring, especially the time last October when I flicked back my dirty ponytail to answer the phone and a woman's voice said: "Is this the Talk of the Town beauty salon?"
So you can see, working part time from home definitely has its perks.
I don't mean to brag, but I'm almost sure I wore pantyhose only once all winter.
I have gone Krogering at 1 p.m. on a Monday afternoon - and not even had the chance to read Soap Opera Digest in the checkout line, the wait was so short.
If I want, I can wear holey jeans and Birkenstocks one day, and holey cut-offs and Birkenstocks the next. Last week, I wore my husband's blue shirt every single day - except Friday, when he got up earlier than I and wore it to work. (He checked, he said; it didn't smell.)
I've had time to get so uncommonly attached to my dog that I can barely write a column without mentioning him at least once: Scooter.
I've had time to go on leisurely joy rides with my 78-year-old neighbor lady - who has been known to go out for a loaf of bread . . . and end up on Afton Mountain.
I'm gonna miss this life when I return to full-time work in one month (31 days: 744 hours; 17 seconds). I'm gonna miss it even more than I have missed my paychecks, and I don't even recall what a savings-account deposit slip looks like.
So mentally I am preparing myself. Last weekend, I organized my journalism garb by way of my semi-annual Clothes Switch, wherein I take my summer clothes out of the attic and switch them with the winter clothes in my wardrobe. I usually hate doing this, so much so that I wait till mid-June and all I have to wear is sweaters and long pants.
The routine goes like this: I haul out a big box for the Salvation Army. The stuff that hasn't been worn all winter, but has taken up valuable wardrobe space, gets tossed into the box.
This is all theoretical, of course. For instance, I have this baggy yellow shirt I wore a lot my senior year of college. It has these black hieroglyphiclike designs resembling Chinese tic-tac-toe, super magnets and guitar-pick-and-hairbrush sets. It still has a safety pin in place of a button that fell off five years ago and three white bleach blotches - remnants from my early laundromat days, back before I caught on to separating whites and darks. I love this shirt, though I haven't worn it in at least five years.
Every spring and fall I put it in my Salvation Army box. Every spring and fall I dig it out at the last minute and hang it back up.
To tell the truth, this Clothes Switch thing is tough on me. I am hopelessly sentimental, perhaps even more so than my husband, who has T-shirts dating back to the fifth grade and a painting from the basement of his youth entitled "Flashlight Under Water." (Imagine a large canvas painted blue, save for one yellow circle in the lower right-hand corner.)
This spring's Clothes Switch went better than most, though. Hanging in between all the dresses I didn't have to wear to work this winter was the black dress I bought in 1983 for my Dad's funeral.
Not that I'd ever planned on wearing it again. It's ugly and poorly made, reflecting both my tastes and budget that year. It's just that I didn't want to forget the way it felt walking along that empty mall lobby in Springfield, Ohio, alone on a Tuesday morning, thinking, I can't believe I'm shopping for a dress now; I can't believe I'm shopping for this dress.
This year I took one look at that dress and knew immediately it had to go. I'd held onto it long enough. I wouldn't ever forget.
So I'm getting better at this Clothes Switch thing, and I think it's a good sign, a way of cleaning the slate, a way of preparing for the big 9-to-5 switch ahead.
If I didn't know better, I'd say it's even a sign of maturity. This year I'm letting go of a whole U-Haul box full of clothes, sheets and towels, and some things I can't mention - or my husband might go through the box and find his old T-shirts.
It's hard telling what he might do in retaliation. It could get ugly.
He could even try to give my red flannels and Birkenstocks away, which would be the worst possible revenge.
For one thing, what would I wear to work next month?
Beth Macy, a features department staff writer, actually works harder in graduate school than this article implies (honest, professors). Her column runs Thursdays.
by CNB