Dressed Like A Cheap Hooker At Work

How do you tell someone at work, who isn’t your employee, but works in your area, that she is completely and totally dressed inappropriately for the office? In fact, that she is completely and totally dressed inappropriately for anything but the very cheapest of street hookers? That you, a gay man born in the sixties and who came of age in the seventies who became sexually active in the eighties and isn’t shocked by pretty much anything, can see her hoo-hoo through her cheap jersey leggings, and her home Brazilian Wax that is crooked and uneven, and the very hole of her ass if she bends over to tie a shoe or pick up a pencil, and you are, indeed, shocked?

What makes people that stupid? And now I have to bring it up to her senior supervisor and my branch manager tomorrow morning, and I really don’t want to because I do not want to talk about it and I do not want to acknowledge this chick’s absolute cluelessness that what she wore is wrong for work, and I do not want to get involved in whatever State Government nonsense this spins out of control into.

And because HER supervisor didn’t notice and send her home to change clothes, and her supervisor’s supervisor didn’t notice and send her home to change clothes, and I should not have to play moral watchdog for the whole goddamn office just because nobody else cares enough to even give a shit.

Sunday is like this, sometimes, when you work for state government. You spend most of the evening trying to flush your brain out so you can actually get to sleep so you can wake refreshed to deal with this stupid bullshit tomorrow. If I drank, I’d never be able to make it in tomorrow, but I don’t anymore, so I read and read and read and read and just lose myself in the beautiful words of someone who actually gets to write books for a living.

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