John has been asked to meet with a client of my bosses to do some subcontracting work, and as I was chatting with my boss (who was my good friend first), I said, “He’ll be there with bells on…or pants, anyway.” This whole story sums up about half of what I love about my life right now. First off: I work for a friend I can comfortably joke with about whether or not my husband has a tendency to wear pants. Second off: John and I have a pants-optional work life–the joke fell decidedly under the banner of “Funny because it’s true.”
I will clarify for any prospective clients who might stumble across my blog: don’t worry. We both wear appropriate business (or business casual) attire for all client meetings. We are professionals, after all. We just happen to be professionals who are also rarely obligated to meet with our clients in real life.
Back when John was hunting for jobs in the midst of our move to Allston, he came across a Craiglist ad for a personal assistant. A creative, work-from-home couple needed someone to help with the errands, bookkeeping, etc. John and I laughed at this ad for a good, long while because it warned that the husband and wife were “naturalists,” so the right candidate would be “comfortable with occasional nudity.”
I laugh looking back on that ad for different reasons–namely, because I can’t help but wonder if John and I will eventually cease caring what people think of our life choices and become some version of that couple. We’re not naturalists by a long stretch, but the working from home half of the time (or more, in John’s case), has a decided influence on our care of social boundaries. Our leasing company came by with a prospective tenant to show the apartment today, for example, and it didn’t occur to me until after they left that most people probably would have thrown on something more presentable than yoga pants and an oversized Oxford.
There’s a younger version of me cringing in some dusty corner of my mind at the thought that the landlord or prospective tenant might have noticed the little hole in the rump of my yoga pants. Current me, however, couldn’t care less…and I’m really not sure I can blame the lack of concern on whatever pestilent scoundrel my body is struggling to hunt down. I think I’m just getting old enough to believe the internet truism: Pants are overrated.