Casual Friday

or: Why one should keep a pair of black pants in one's car

The office of the magazine for which I work allows casual dress most days, and most folks wear jeans on casual Friday.

I was planning to spend Friday night grilling ribs with friends, so I dressed in stylish jeans with red stripes down the side, a red square-neck tee-shirt and a black jacket.

My friend Lisa works next door, for our publisher.

When I got to work, Lisa (who was also supposed to go to the cook-out), said she'd cancelled with our other friends and would I like to go to the horse races instead? She had a client who'd given her free tickets. It was a bit of a networking event.

Me, being the consummate introvert, needed some arm-twisting to agree to go. And at about noon, I realized what I was wearing and told her: "I don't really think I'm dressed for the horse races."

She said it wouldn't matter and I should go with her regardless.

So I did. The printing magnate's son met us downstairs with a ticket for me, and escorted us upstairs to the Governor's Club. We had some wonderful food, free drinks, Lisa won a prize from the company and we placed a few small bets and won $7 each in the second race.

I was having a grand time, and was telling Lisa: "I can't wait to blog about this, it's such a trip out of the ordinary, for me."

True, no one else was dressed quite as casually as me, but our host had been gracious about turning a blind eye, and no one else even looked derisively in my direction.

Until I placed a bet on the ninth race.

An employee of the racecourse approached me after I had placed my bet.

Joe: "Miss?"

Me: "Yes."

Joe: "Have you been wearing those jeans all day?"

Me: "Yes."

Joe: "When did you arrive here?"

Me: "Before the sixth race."

Joe: "Do you see anyone else here dressed like you?"

Me: "No. And you know what? I've been self-conscious of it since I got here. Because I was invited to this event from work, where I was dressed like this all day."

Joe: "Well, if you'd asked one of us we could have found black pants for you, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Me: "Excuse me?" Thinking: Truly they don't have black pants in my size just waiting for first-time race spectators to make such a grand faux pas as to wear jeans to a race.

Joe: "I could have got you some black pants, earlier, but you'll have to leave now."

Me: "I intend to."

Now, my reflections on the event are as such.

1. Trust my intuition. If I think I'm underdressed, I probably am.

2. Keeping a pair of black pants in my car might not be a bad idea.

3. I should have said (insert snide comment) to Joe. Repeat 10 times.

4. It matters who you are. If you commit a gross fashion atrocity in the presence of the printing magnate's son, no one bats an eyelid. But if you're by yourself, expect to get bounced.

Now, Lisa called the printing magnate's son as we left, and explained why she wouldn't be able to say goodbye. He claimed he was too drunk to be trusted to raise the issue with the racecourse staff without causing a scene.

So. We watched the last race from the public area, where it was fine to wear jeans and tank tops, and then went out for buffalo wings. In a sports bar. Where no one cared what I was wearing.