She's Come Unzipped: I Will Never Be the Girl in a Boring Black Suit

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I have often imagined my adult self as a successful businesswoman, confidently leading a meeting in a don’t-mess-with-me Armani sheath dress, entertaining clients in an architectural Donna Karan frock and pair of Prada boots that scream, “I’m competent and sexy”, or flying into a hostile boardroom, classic Burberry trench still knotted, understated Louis Vuitton Epi briefcase by my side—irrefutable evidence of my business prowess—to deliver a diatribe not soon to be forgotten.

While my corporate daydreams include impeccably planned ensembles, from the demure diamond-encrusted pearls dangling from my ears to the red-soled stilettos encasing my feet, conspicuously missing is why I’m wearing them. What is my job, and why am I mulling over papers in a corner office, wearing a St. John boucle suit? I’ve been so enamored by the wardrobe the successful me sports that I never bothered to envision the career that could afford it, leaving the nature of my work to the unexplored assumption that I do “something fabulous.” If men define themselves by their career, and I define my career by my clothes, where does that leave me?

At twenty five years old, the hunt for a well-heeled position has resulted in little more than a disappointing corporate stint and a closet full of tragically hopeful suits, still waiting for that “something fabulous” and a chance to dazzle. My limited exposure to real-world office culture baffles me: ill-fitting trousers, boxy blouses, and itchy wool turtlenecks seemingly designed to unflatter. My stunning raspberry, linen Valentino summer suit (that was supposed be worth its cost in job offers) is shockingly unappreciated by potential employers. Undoubtedly, working in this pinstriped environment of navy, black, and gray would leave me as dreary as the clothes.

If my post-grad corporate forays have taught me anything, it’s that perhaps I’m better suited for the life of a journalist—allowed to write from home in designer denim with my dog as the head of HR, responsible for maintaining team morale. The show-stopping ensembles I have accumulated seem more appropriate for lunch meetings with editors and cocktail interviews with fascinating people than for the office. Regardless of what field I end up in, one thing is certain: I will never be the girl in the boring black suit, with a severe ponytail and practical pumps.