One of the most "millenial" things about me is probably the fact that, even though I don't have cable at home, I nevertheless spend a large portion of my leisure time watching TV in the form of re-watching my favorite shows on Netflix. I'm in academia now, so I feel like I should be ashamed of such egregiously non-intellectual time-wasting. But mindlessly watching commercial-less TV is so goshdarn relaxing. (He who does not binge-watch Netflix on a semi-regular basis can cast the first stone.) I'm taking another tour through The Office right now.
Yesterday I re-watched "Boys and Girls," an episode from the latter half of season two, in which Corporate Boss Jan leads the women in the office through a humdrum "Women in the Workplace" seminar. Among other familiar, ladies-be-workin' topics, Jan pulls out a well-worn gem of advice: "Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."
This being The Office, this line exists so that a predictable punchline can be delivered by the uptight, prudish Angela, who glares at Jan's above-the-knee skirt and comments into the camera, "Apparently, judging from her outfit, Jan aspires to be a whore." Really, it's a piece of advice seemingly designed for workplace comedies looking for an easy laugh. 30 Rock used it, too, in season three. Jack Donaghy presents the "dress for the job you want" wisdom to a janitor named Manny, who responds, "Tomorrow I show up for work dressed as a Mexican Wrestler." The humor, of course, derives from the fact that a number of inspiring careers involve unconventional dress codes, so the advice is without value for many of us. But it's worth admitting that the cliche gets one thing right: most jobs (even jobs without a formal dress code) have an implicit "uniform" that we all assume in our societal hive-mind. (Doctors have white coats. Lawyers wear suits. Elementary school art teachers wear crazy, seasonally-themed sweaters.)
I'd like to pause for a moment to review my sartorial reality: I have never been, never wanted to be, and never needed to be a fashion-conscious ladyperson. I spent the majority of my early years feeling awkward and insecure about my body shape, and so I instinctively became one of those people who finds exactly one "look" that seems flattering and then wears it every single day forever. For proof, look no further than literally any picture of me from high school. For four years, I exclusively sported spaghetti-strap tank tops, flare jeans, and zip-up hoodies. During one of those years, I also wore almost nothing but black for the sole reason that I'd decided that black looked best on me, so I stopped buying anything in any other color. My wardrobe has become marginally more diverse since then (now I buy clothes in a range of earth tones!), but through the years I've never found reason to alter my fundamentally fashion-blind MO.
So I internally grumbled a bit when I realized that this summer, for the very first time, I would actually need to purchase clothing that will help me assume a specific professional role in the manner implied by Jan and Jack: I'm teaching a college class this fall, and consequently need to dress like a college professor. I then promptly procrastinated and found myself madly scavenging the Framingham shopping center on Labor Day.
That afternoon, looking at the rows upon rows of autumn-flavored sweaters and slacks at Old Navy and Nordstrom Rack, I found myself thinking that "Dress for the job you want" was still a meaningless phrase for me. (The job I want is "wheezy tenured professor," a role which by definition involves job security so rock-solid that I could dress like a Tolkien wizard with impunity.) "Dress for the job you actually have" on the other hand, wound up being a much more informative and thought-provoking piece of guiding advice. After all, "female teacher" is, generically, the job I have. It's an extremely common figure in American society to the point of being stereotyped. From the insultingly drab "curmudgeonly schoolmarm" figure to the cringingly demeaning "hot librarian" trope, popularized cultural representations have furnished all of us with countless impressions of what a lady teacher looks like, and (for better or more-likely-for worse) they inform what my students and colleagues will expect to see when they encounter me on campus.
The result? I tried on a variety of cardigan sweaters and a pencil skirt. They made me feel like I looked like I was trying to be a teacher. They also made me feel like a teacher. I bought a variety of sweaters and a pencil skirt.
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