I’ve got this friend who’s passionate about dress codes. Her name is Sharon. Most of the jobs I’ve had, when it’s come time for a boss to enforce the dress code, they do so reluctantly, even sheepishly. Like hey, you and I both know no one really gives a shit whether or not your shoulders are showing, and the people who do care that your shoulders are showing are boring so fuck ‘em, who gives a shit about boring people who give a shit about whether your shoulders are showing, but the rules are the rules, so please next time wear your scrubs. Sharon’s not most people. She cares. Not just because it’s her job to care, but because she genuinely thinks it matters whether your shoulders are showing or not. She doesn’t believe in God or poetry or love or the American Dream, but she does believe in professionalism. She’s also not a prude; outside of work she’s a big supporter of people wearing whatever they want. But to work people must come dressed to the nines, their shoulders properly shaded, the napes of their necks only hinting at the possibility of a spine.
Once I cheated on someone who was cheating on someone to be with me. The person he was cheating on to be with me was cheating on her husband to be with him. You can’t make this stuff up. We were high school sweethearts once. I lost my naivete to him. Now we were ruthless, ruthlessly ruining our own credibility. How could I ever believe myself in love again?