I’m waiting for my clothes to warm up in the dryer so I can go to work. I have to wear a uniform. People who know me know that uniform-wearing is antithetical to my usual individuality-screaming self. I also have to keep my hair a “normal” color (what? pink is not normal?). The hair thing is actually OK; it’s a little more challenging to pull off unnatural hair color at 47 than it was at, say, 42.
Wearing a uniform is not really that bad. I never have to think about what to wear to work. I don’t have to spend money on “work clothes.” No ironing. No second-guessing if my neckline is too low or my hemline is too high.
On the other hand, I don’t get to express my individuality. Every work shift is like a lie. Uniforms inspire mediocrity, as we all strive to be only as bright as the most muted unit. Overshadowing another equally points up your strength and the other’s weakness; there’s almost a shame in not dragging up the weaker one. But what if you shine? What if you want to burn blue? You become the object of disdain. The kiss-ass. The creeper.
So I slip on the rags of mediocrity and am thankful I have a job. Maybe this is why I have trouble sleeping at night.
–Mary