After some consideration, I’ve decided on the following outfit.  And by “some consideration” I mean I called nearly everyone I know.  I’m switching my deeply hated but incredibly practical for job interviews brown trousers for a pair of vintage cropped cigarette pants I like much more.  They’re black and, since they show ankle bone, they’re mildly more casual.  Ankle bone, as we all know, is the new cleavage.  Okay.  Not it’s not.

I’m so not a fan of business casual.  For one thing, I hate the notion that khaki pants and a knit shirt are somehow more dressy than awesome jeans and a blazer.  And for another, I seriously hate knit shirts.  Really.  Really hate.  I don’t play golf.  I don’t want to look like I play golf.  And they make my boobs look weird.

Coral-colored cardigan.  An unbelievably fantastic scarf.  Flats.  And, probably, a tailored white shirt.

By “tailored” I mean “mommed.”  I bought the shirt at H&M a couple of years ago and it wasn’t a particularly good fit.  You know?  I like a shirt that fits my somewhat-large-for-a-lady shoulders and long torso.  Often such a shirt also has monkey arms and  room for fatness I don’t have.  My mom lopped two inches off the sleeves and added some darts.  It’s now the best shirt ever.  She does that.  I idly complain about a garment or sigh and push up my sleeves or something, and she leaps out from behind the bushes waving a needle and thread.

Yesterday she restructured the collar of a vintage dress I bought at Goodwill and put in a new zipper.  She’s great, my mom.  If it weren’t unseasonably cold and raining, I’d be wearing that dress today.  And twirling.  It has a twirly skirt.

Stupid weather.