I have discovered a new form of torture. It is called smart casual dress, and it appears to be an elaborate test of one’s suitability, tantamount to presenting one in the court of Versailles under Louis XIV without any preparation. Not content with testing professionalism and modesty, smart casual seems to weigh the entire worth of the personality in the balance. In addition to perfect pressing, shined shoes, and modest lines, it demands fashion, individuality, elegance.
In short, everything, not excluding perfection itself.
The internet informs me that my nails–my nails!–must be tidily painted. Accordingly, I have painted. And rummaged. And tried on, in the frozen cavern of my bedroom, most of the contents of my closet in my efforts to make a statement.
I could make a statement, all right. In four letters.