Secret Fashion Police

I work at a national lab. Hold that excitement, no oohing and ahhhing just yet. I'm not one of those scientists who wears a (filthy) white coat and rushes in and out of labs labeled with all the horrible stuff in there (with a sign on the door that says, "no experimental work allowed" - huh?), nor am I one of the guys who runs those really cool robot arms behind six inches of glass moving stuff that looks like it's glowing orange that is radioactive or full of nano-whatevers. (They get to wear magenta coats that may or may not have radioactive contamination, that's why they're magenta, so you don't accidentally grab it and wear it into a nano place I guess. Well that and they hide the dirt better.) Nope, I don't have one of the really cool jobs - I don't film those people even. No, I do budget and scheduling stuff to make pretty reports for our 'transparent' funding streams. In my spare time, I'm the fashion police. The secret fashion police. You know me, of course you do, in your world you may even be me. It's an easy job here at the lab. You can wear jeans with a Coldwater Creek sweater (hi MOM) and be one of the better dressed folks here. I guess maybe they figure they'll throw on a white coat (did I mention how filthy they are?) when they get here and just forget. I mean really, I'm not expecting couture here. I just expect your shirt to meet your pants. I think that's a great starting point, baby steps. Shirt, meet waistband. I would love to make it through a day (dare I dream week?) without seeing some middle aged, overweight woman's flesh belt at eye level when she comes to speak to me at my desk. (And I can say that, because I'm older than these women and I make sure my mid-section is covered at all times when I'm in the work place.) Call me crazy. And I remember in school (way back when dinosaurs roamed the earth,) we all learned that you don't wear pants that show your socks when you're standing up (who was that kid with the really annoying voice who pulled his pants WAY up? Erkel or something?) Why oh why are your pants so short and covered in dog hair? Do you not have a mirror? A husband - a child perhaps? My own daughter would certainly ask if I were actually going to work, or if I were planning on laundering everything I own, or perhaps I thought I'd scrub the garage floor on my hands and knees before throwing those pants away? Does everyone here have a mirror that just blares, "ooh, you look so hot in those, yes you do, baby, you're going to bring back the front tummy pleats today fo sho!" And those fur clogs - where do they buy the fur clogs for Pete's sake?? Yes, if you're looking for the death of fashion you've come to the right place. This is the end of the fashion line, the Kmart of the business-dressed world, (we're not even classy enough for Walmart - and those people have a website!) And I'm lucky enough to be paid to watch it claw it's way to the Goodwill store. Or perhaps, alas, some of these things have clawed their way back out?