The T-shirt Chronicles

My Big Sister "AJ"

Nothing against uniforms, but coming from a long line of fashion plates, I work hard on keeping up appearances.

My Mother and Me

I put even more effort into guiding my life by certain  principles. Like compassion. Honestly. Respect. And commitment to excellence. But this is about  my clash with a T-shirt. An ugly brawl that tested my core values, and challenged my life long commitment to Vogue. 
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After working in corporate America for twenty-five plus years,  I developed my own brand of business chic.  Every day, my goal was to be impeccably groomed and fashionable.

 I'm a carbon copy of my sister - a lady who, before leaving for work, would do a million "fashion checks," back and forth in front of the mirror, switching out earrings, belts and shoes, until she got it "just right."

My Aunt Verlie

I’m also cut from the same cloth as my mother, a high-principled woman, a stay at home mom,  and a fashionista.  When I was a little girl, every time she woke me up in the morning,  she was all dolled up – nice dress, manicured nails, and curler-free hair.  

And then there was my aunt, who had a huge motorized closet, just like the dry cleaners,  with her clothes going round and round in a circle until she picked something.  Okay. She had to spin it around with her hand, but you get the point.  It's in my blood.

All three are in heaven now, watching me do my best to keep the tradition alive, in my personal life, and as a working stiff valued employee. 

Staying en vogue served me well for most of my career.  But one hair-raising day, everything changed.

Towards the end of my working life, I was part of a team that managed an award-winning trade show - It  drew 30,000 business people from around the world.  The highlight of all of my years in business was putting that show together and then graciously and professionally running it every winter.  When I was at the show, dressed to the nines, meeting, greeting, overseeing, and putting out fires, I was in my element. 

I’d been working on the event for nearly ten years when the team was asked to attend a strange meeting.  The topic:  Show Attire.  I assumed my boss would give a talk to the young’uns’ on how to dress for the show.  So why were the old-timers invited?  

When I entered the conference room, I thought it was odd that she’d placed photos of tacky, polyester, powder blue, long-sleeved T-shirts on the conference table.  

Then she dropped a bombshell.  She wanted us to wear the godawful, powder blue, “unisex” T-shirts at our mega trade show, in front of all those people, like it, or not. 

As I looked around the table I saw long faces, quizzical looks, and  one poor soul who was guzzling bottled water, to help absorb the shock.  (Oh wait - that was me.)  Worse, my boss had already put her name and shirt size on the sign-up sheet.  WTF?  She was a top executive, running a team of seasoned pros. T-shirts?  For a company picnic – fine.  But not at a high-level marketplace like our show.  It was not a good fit.      

After the meeting,  I huddled with colleagues.  Some were incredulous, others started making T-shirt lemonade:  It made packing easier.  They’d save money. It was only for four days.  I on the other hand, was trembling in fear.  For me, wearing a T-shirt at the show would feel unprofessional, and humiliating.  Plus, we’d only get two shirts each, for a four

WARNING: Objects may be tackier than they appear.

day event. Somebody’s math (and hygiene) was way off.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day. T-shirts.  I didn't even like it when we asked the temp helpers to wear them at the show, for advertising purposes.  A lot of those folks looked just like me. Seasoned. Poised. Businesslike. On Opening Day, did they struggle to pull those shirts over their heads, like I would?    

I imagined packing my suitcase.  Piece of cake, right?  Throw in two tacky blue shirts, and you’re done.  Except packing for the show was a ritual for me.  I enjoyed picking just the right boots, dresses, and accessories. 

This event was a big deal for all of us. Every man on our team showed up looking like an Adonis, and every woman was straight out of a fashion magazine.  

Why didn't she want us to look good?

  

Let me take a shot at it:  Her self-esteem was below sea level.  An executive, happy to show up at a first-class event in a polyester shirt, with 30,000 well-groomed people watching, was no mental health poster girl.  Freud would have a field day with this T-shirt edict.

For me, it was a nightmare.   

I know you may be thinking, “Just put the shirt on!”    

Like everybody else, I didn’t want to risk being fired for insubordination. But I had to stand in the truth of myself (and my role models). I was a professional. I could not wear the stinking shirt to the show. Full stop.

I went to HR.  After they shut their mouths, which had flown open when they heard my story, they said the following:  You and the rest of the team always look great at the show.  Why would she put you in T-shirts? We don't get it.  So HR decided not to interfere, suggesting I tell my boss why I objected to wearing the shirt, and that should be the end of it (they thought).  I quickly realized my boss was a known troublemaker and nobody wanted to cross her.* It was left up to me.

So I told her why I couldn’t wear it.  She was unfazed. Then I did something that is hard for me to admit:  I begged her to release me from this obligation.  Now she really knew how much it meant to me.  Rather than making her soften her position, I had fueled her resolve. Unable to mask her glee, and almost celebrating the pain in my face, she promised to march right into HR, to make them force me to wear it.   

I went back to my desk and hung my head.  Within less than an hour, I saw an email from my boss.  It read simply,

You may wear the shirt to the show, or not (wear it).

I won.

But it wasn’t over yet.   I feared blow back from my colleagues, many of whom secretly loathed the shirts, but would wear them anyway.  I’d have to face them at the show.  

On Opening Day, I showed up looking like most of the other 30,000 people. Professional. Neat. Well groomed.  My teammates were wearing their polyester shirts, and I’m sorry, they’re an attractive bunch, but on that day, they didn’t look so hot.  I felt like a traitor, but damned if I didn’t have on a smokin’ outfit with matching boots and accessories.

I went to the staff room where my boss was just starting a meeting with an all male group of managers.  She was circled by grown men, wearing lovely powder blue shirts, just like hers. Awkward.  I’m no mind reader, but I’d say they were a bit distressed.  After years of wearing their own shirts and ties, this was no picnic.  Meanwhile, I felt like Judas, and could barely look them in the eye. 

Me, at the show.

Later, a co-worker called me a traitor.  He might as well have stuck a knife into my heart, but I did not wince.  I stood strong and explained that I did what I had to do, and he could have done the same.  I told him I was still the same team player I had been before I rejected the shirt. I hoped he understood. Then I hugged him, and walked away.

It was my hardest show ever.  

I got compliments from people, nods from the president and others,  and I felt good when I looked in the mirror.  I had no reason to be uncomfortable.  But I was.

The next year, I didn’t feel as guilty.  By the third year, I was guiltless, and at least one other person followed my lead (I think) and rejected the shirt.  Then one day our boss grew into her big executive shoes, announcing she would stop wearing T-shirts at the show.  She also told us we could wear whatever we wanted.  The shirts were officially optional.

 

 I never saw those ugly shirts on anybody, ever again.

*See I Worked for a Witch