As a rule, words at the office are few at 6:00 a.m. on Monday mornings. We flock to the break room: to coffee, perchance to awaken. The fact that anything percolates before sunrise is truly amazing. Soon, the meetings will begin, or if there are none, we will, no doubt, within the hour find ourselves three spreadsheets to the wind. I utter ‘good morning’ to coworkers when provoked. We nod and reciprocate plastic smiles. Typical Monday.At least it began that way until I hear, “nice pants.” It's the human resources gal. She's all smiles and pointing at my navy pinstripes.
Now I’m worried.
Generally speaking, in the dark world of men’s office apparel (mostly black and blue polyester), there is a mano-a-mano code of silence … that is, unless something is amiss, like the guy who tucks sweaters inside his pants. If there's no time to punish the offender by taping him to the flagpole, verbal abuse ensues. That’s when a man hears “Is the circus in town?” or, perhaps, “Nice pants.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, trying to sound unrattled.
She finds the cream and sugar and disappears.
Second in line now, the self-examination begins in earnest. Zipper: check. No clinging fabric softener sheets. Now I look for stains – down the legs, hips, ankles. The exact moment that I crank my head around and make eye contact with my rear end – when I’m certain that no one else is paying attention – my boss materializes from nowhere.
“Everything okay?” he says, visibly amused.
I redirect quickly – mentioning the weather, inquiring about his weekend golf outing. He plays smalltalk, but the truth is in his eyes. I was checking myself out. He knows.
I’m fully awake now, unnaturally stirred, even before my first sip of coffee. “Nice pants,” I mumble under my breath, coffee now in hand as I make the trek back to my office. This time, the words trigger last night’s dream. I rarely remember dreams and am always surprised when they surface.
I sat in a punishing chair, sporting a provocative leisure suit — all white, bellbottoms, a button-down flower shirt from Mr. Brady’s wardrobe, nipple-length collar, white shoes. I looked like a Pat Boone regurgitation.
A clock ticked loudly, too loudly. Squirming, I searched desperately for the chair’s sweet spot. One wrong move and I knew that I'd give myself a wedgie on national television.
Sitting across from me, mere inches from my nose, Nipsey Russell studied me with twinkling eyes. “Stonehenge,” he said, then repeated it, louder than before, with a nod, with urgency.
I stared blankly, scanning his face for a clue that wasn’t there. The clock grew louder. My mind raced.
Stonehenge. Stonehenge. What did it mean? “Uh … the U.K., rocks, circles, religious ceremonies, wonders of the world …” I said, grasping.
Flustered, Nipsey abandoned me for three precious seconds, then nearly came unglued. “Fashion trends,” he shrieked, shaking his hands ecstatically.
Suddenly, it clicked.
“Things a man will never understand!” I shouted.
Chaos. A bell dinged repeatedly. The clock stopped. We jumped up and down. Dick Clark shook our hands vigorously as the “$25,000 Pyramid” theme song filled our ears. Calgon took us away to a commercial break.
Stupid dream. I won’t be sharing that one with my boss.
Not an hour later, overheard in the hallway: “Nice top.” This time it’s a woman-to-woman compliment. No confusion there. It’s literal. They gush about her shirt for a full 60 seconds.
The thought that no one says “nice bottom” crosses my mind. Funny. Such flattery would be less ambiguous than “nice pants” in my world.
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