In which I decide to always wear khakis

MY COMPANY, like many, has Jeans Casual on Fridays when we don’t have clients in the building. They will occasionally give us Jeans Casual as a special treat on other days, like the days between Christmas and New Years for the poor suckers trapped in the office while the other poor suckers are trapped with their families.

I will occasionally give myself an unsanctioned Jeans Casual Friday. I’m not really one for breaking the rules, so giving myself Jeans Casual is my way of sticking it to The Man. I feel anxious every time I do it. I feel the way I imagine people at the Boston Tea Party would have felt, only they were dressed as Indians, and I’m a denim-wearing pansy.

Normally, my minor rebellion goes unnoticed – just the way I like it – but today was different.

As I step into the elevator this morning, who do I run into but our company’s CEO. He is not, I should mention, wearing jeans. I look from him, to my pants, back to him, and then try to slide inconspicuously beside him. I then do what everyone does instinctually in elevators: I stare up at the floor number display.

Silence. I exhale. This is going to be fine.

“It’s cold today, huh?” he says.

I panic. What is he implying? That I’m wearing jeans because it’s cold? I look over at him.

“Yeah. But I like it,” I respond. Great. Good job. Don’t say anything stupid. Pause. But what if he hates the cold? Normally, in that situation, I go on to say that I like cold weather because I went to school in New Hampshire. Thick blood and all that shit. But because my mind is so preoccupied thinking about my bedenimed legs, the 10% still focusing on the actual conversation decides that the whole school thing would be far too complicated.

“I’m from Canada,” I blurt out.

No you’re not! You’re from Connecticut! Why are you lying? Abort conversation! At this point, the panic has grasped my brain in a death-like vice, and I start imagining a conversation between my CEO, my boss and me. In this imagined conversation, my CEO brings up the fact that I’m from Canada, my boss looks confused. The truth comes out. I’m shamed. It’s horrible. I’m sweating.

“Really? My family has a house in Vermont,” he says, “right on the border. Beautiful country.”

“Yeah,” I say. My mind is totally blank. “Yeah, but Vermont’s not Canada.”

Nice job, asshole!

“That’s true,” he says.

Silence. The doors slide open.

“Well, uh, this is my floor,” I say. “Have a nice day.”

KILL SELF.