Red Dress Club: Power Suit

 

This weeks writing prompt from The Red Dress Club: “Write a piece - 600 word limit - about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet. Let us know how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.”

 

Power Suit

I open the closet door looking for something appropriate for a funeral—something that fits. My current uniform of well-worn Levi’s, an old school Patriot’s hoodie, and graying Saucony running shoes aren’t going to work today. In the far left hand corner of the closet I find a leftover from my corporate days—a black wool suit. The jacket has hidden placket buttons and the skirt falls just above the knee with a three-inch slit on the left side. I used to wear it with an ice blue silk blouse and pearls or a red shell with a bold printed scarf. It was my uniform many years ago.

I look dubiously at the label—size six. I’m no heavier than I was before I had kids. According to the scale I am a few pounds lighter than I was in my suit wearing days. But my waistline has never quite recovered from making room for my nine and a half pound baby boy. My jeans are a size six too, but clothes are cut differently these days. When I worked in the corporate world, no one wore low-rise jeans except aging hippies. I’m not sure the term “mom jeans” had even been coined yet.

I try on the jacket first and I’m surprised by how tight it is. Apparently spending my days lifting children has broadened my shoulders and back. Maybe I didn’t need the freedom to move my arms when I worked in an office or perhaps I’ve grown accustomed to wearing looser clothes. Whatever the reason, I decide it fits well enough to wear for an hour or two—assuming the skirt fits.  

I steel my ego as I zip the skirt. It fits, but the fabric digs into my softened midsection. Then I realize that I’ve forgotten a part of the old uniform. I rummage through a box at the top of my closet. I find it still in the package—one pair of sheer, black, sandal toe, control top pantyhose.  I take off the skirt and pull on the hose. It feels so foreign to encase my legs in Lycra and nylon and yet there was a time I did it every day. The skirt is no more comfortable now, but it looks better. I decide it’s worth the discomfort.

I stare at myself in the mirror. This was my “power suit”. If I was meeting a client or running a training class I would wear this suit. It always felt confident and professional. It fit so well I bought two of them—one black and one red. I don’t remember what happened to the red one—probably long gone during a ruthless spring-cleaning. Donated to Big Brother Big Sister along with the blue pinstripe and gray flannel pants suits and the burgundy gabardine suit with the long straight skirt. Given away to make room in the closet for the Pack and Play and an extra case of diapers.

The suit fits well enough, but something doesn’t look right. Maybe my shoes aren’t the right height for the skirt. I try on every pair of black shoes and boots I own trying to make it work and I still feel like I’m wearing a costume.

My son comes in while I’m looking at myself in the mirror. “Mommy, you look pretty,” he says.

“Thanks sweetie,” I say.

“But you don’t look like Mommy. Can you put your regular clothes back on?”  His chubby finger points to the pile on my bed. It’s my power suit these days—jeans, a sweatshirt and shoes made for running.

Theatre of the Absurd

(or Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned On Stage)    

       A few weeks ago my kids and I were invited to a birthday party for my neighbor’s six-year-old daughter. You know how sometimes you go to a kid’s birthday party and you know you’re going to be wishing it was over before you get there? Their parties aren’t like that. This family knows how to throw a party. Everyone always has a great time—the kids and the adults. My husband was quite disappointed that he couldn’t attend because he had rehearsal.

I was chatting with one of my neighbor’s friends from out of town about our involvement in community theatre. She asked me how skills learned on stage could be applied to the corporate world. It was a great question, but one I wasn’t able to answer that night. We were interrupted repeatedly to administer first aid, break up fights, and fetch bottles of water. And that was from the adults—kidding! As if the adults would be drinking water. Her question has been rattling around in my head since that night. A few weeks ago I wrote about how the corporate world prepared me for motherhood. This week I’m writing about how the skills I’ve learned from theatre prepared me for the corporate world.

1.)   Thinking on your feet (also known as improvising) When you’re on stage anything could go wrong at any time. A prop could be missing, a sound effect might never happen, a fellow actor might forget his lines, you might forget your own lines. As an actor you need to figure out a way to work around it—hopefully without the audience ever knowing. There is an old theatre legend—usually attributed to John Barrymore. He was in a scene in which he was supposed to shoot someone, but the gun didn’t make a sound when he fired. So he used the gun to bludgeon the other character to death. Coming up with a way to get yourself out of a sticky situation comes in handy regardless of your occupation.

Ever feel like you're dodging knives at work?

2.)   Being articulate It is astonishing to me how badly most people communicate. The ability to express yourself clearly is vital not only in the corporate world, but in day-to-day situations. I work in a retail setting. Many of my customers are well educated but can’t seem to ask a simple question. Rather than saying, “I’m interested in buying the Norsjo bed frame. Can you tell me if it’s in stock?” They will instead ask me to follow them to the product on the showroom floor, kick the product, and grunt. If only they had been under the direction of my high school drama teacher—my displays would be in far better repair.

3.)   Dressing for success We all know you need to dress a certain way to be taken seriously. Actors love to dress up. The men hardly ever complain about having to wear a tie and the women put up with uncomfortable shoes if they look good. Actors know that the right costume is essential to the character. When I was leaving my corporate job to take up the mantle of mommy hood, a candidate showed up for an interview in a lovely suit…and flip-flops. This was a very buttoned-down corporation—you have to know how to dress to make a good impression on clients. She didn’t get the part… I mean the job.

4.)   Faking it (also known as acting) Don’t pretend you don’t ever have to do any acting at your job. Ever had a client with an awful toupee or a giant hairy mole? You act like you don’t notice and try your damnedest to not stare at it. How about a boss whose politics are the polar opposite of your own. You don’t have to act like you agree—but you do have to control your nausea. Actors have the training to keep a straight face through the most giggle-inducing circumstances. 

5.)   Working on a deadline If your show opens in eight weeks—everything must be done in eight weeks. The audience doesn’t care if you had to cancel rehearsals for a snow storm, half your cast came down with strep throat, the set had to be rebuilt because part of it wouldn’t fit on the stage, the leading lady gained ten pounds and her costume won’t fit, and the stage manager isn’t speaking to the producer because he made a pass at the ingénue. All the audience knows is they have tickets for opening night and they expect to be entertained. This is probably the most tangible parallel between the corporate world and the artistic world. If you’re meeting with your client on a given day, you’re expected to be there with your presentation, prepared to answer questions. Your client doesn’t care that your son has a double ear infection, your car wouldn’t start this morning, your cat threw up on your shoes, and your laptop has a virus. The client is paying you to perform—you better perform.

So if you’re in the corporate world and you’re hiring, you may want to explore your local drama program for qualified candidates. Cause frankly, those kids could really use a paying job—and they usually work cheap.