I Can Wear A Skirt To Work - Chapter 1

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REPOSTED STORY

SUMMARY - Ted is a very competent, capable person.  His self-confidence leads him to accept a dare/bet to work a full day wearing a skirt and high heels.  It ends up being far more involved than anyone expected.

The barbs were beginning to get to me. I appealed to Diane, "Look, I’ll concede that you women do have a little tougher time of it, but you do choose to dress that way. Besides, it still isn’t anything us guys couldn’t do just as well, if it were actually important."

Jean, in for another handful of reports, heard that and challenged me, "OK, prove it."

All I could do was look at her quizzically.

"Show us how you can do it just as well," she demanded.

"How?" I asked.

"Is it too simple for your complex mind?" she sarcastically asked. "Do a full day’s work, wearing a skirt and high heels."

It had all started on a particular government holiday, which was, unfortunately, not observed by the company I work for. The office I worked out of was somewhat special, in that the majority of its business was government-related. Because many of the field technicians would have little to do, it was an ideal time to schedule several of the field technicians into the office for a "working day".

Thus, I found myself assigned to work with the Service Response Coordinator, Cheryl Diaz, taking calls from the customers who were still open for business. It was a function Cheryl normally shared with Diane Parker, the contracts administrator.

I had the filing system for customer records figured out by ten AM. By eleven, I was taking customer calls as though this were my normal job. Having long been on the receiving end of the dispatch process, it wasn’t especially difficult to learn how to assign the calls. Perhaps it was the way I had fit right in, that made an offhand comment lead to my present circumstances.

Several technicians, with no calls to keep them busy, were hanging around the office. Remarking on how well I was handling the job, one of them added an observation that although she couldn’t identify what it was, something didn’t seem quite right.

Knowing that the position had always been held by a female, I made the mistake of quipping, "I suppose you’d feel better about it, if I had longer hair and wore a dress?"

That drew several laughs from around the room.

Gregg Avery, another technician, spoke up, "Only one way to find out!"

I gave him a withering look.

Another call came in, breaking that train of conversation. While I was handling it, the discussion had wound down. When I’d finished, Cheryl reopened the topic.

"...really! You’re only doing part of the job. It’s a lot more difficult to do while managing a skirt. All the getting up, bending, stooping, maneuvering around desks and cabinets, all the while, tethered by the headset cord - it’s much easier in slacks."

"Then why don’t you just wear slacks all the time?" I asked. "I’ve seen you wear them sometimes."

"Just on rain days," she parried.

I had to grin, as I sprung my trap.

"Then it’s not part of the job; it’s just personal preference."

"Oh, yes, it is. The people coming through here expect a certain ‘ambiance’ at the SRC desk. Maintaining that is part of the job, too."

I rolled my eyes at that response and said no more.

Someone mentioned that it was nearly lunchtime. A short discussion followed, concerning where to go.

It was Cheryl’s turn to stay behind and answer the phones, so Diane came with the rest of us. During the trip to the restaurant, she sort of attached herself to me.

While we were waiting for our orders to be served, she remarked, "Sometimes I wonder about Cheryl."

"What about her?" I asked.

"Oh - you know - that business about wearing a skirt on the job. I mean, that really is a bit much, expecting a man to be able to manage a skirt - especially in those circumstances."

I hadn’t listened that closely, so I asked, "How is that?"

"Well, it takes special skill to wear a skirt and not make a spectacle of oneself. It isn’t fair for her to put a guilt trip on you just because you can’t do it."

Some days I can be just plain stupid. Instead of recognizing her troll, I demanded, "What do you mean, CAN’T?"

Diane responded, "You don’t have any experience with it."

I became indignant. "I didn’t have any experience with our equipment before I signed on, either, but I’ve certainly shown that I can do the job."

So far, no one else in the group had contributed anything to this conversation. However, Jean Cox, from the billing department, could no longer hold back.

"It isn’t the same, Ted. Girls spend years, growing up in skirts, learning to handle them gracefully. You can’t just read a manual and expect to do it right."

For some reason, it still hadn’t occurred to me to question why I should even care. "So, what’s there to learn? Don’t bend over so someone can see what’s underneath..." I quipped. I was getting sucked right in.

At this point, Gregg decided to add his tuppence worth, "It ain’t that simple ..."

Jean interrupted him, "What do YOU know about it, anyway?"

Kate Nichols, another technician, who, as it happens, never wore skirts to work, admonished her, "Hey, he is on our side, here."

She then directed her remarks toward me.

"There really is a lot to be aware of. You don’t want to sit on a fold and make a wrinkle of it. You have to be careful not to snag it on anything because a skirt doesn’t follow your movements closely, the way pants do. Outside, you have to watch for breezes, and inside, low air registers. It’s a different way of living."

Still not realizing how deep I was getting, I philosophized, "It sounds like it’s just a matter of situational awareness."

Jean couldn’t let go without a final word on the subject, "Sure, only, like saying goes: Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did, and wearing high heels when she did it. Do You think HE could have done HER job?"

I didn’t bother to answer what appeared to be a rhetorical question. While we ate our meal, the conversation drifted to other matters.

While Cheryl was at lunch, Diane guided my work. I completed the rest of the day’s work satisfactorily, although not without having to hear an occasional comment about how easy I had it.

That probably would have been the end of the matter, except that I have only one account to service. It is a production facility, and it needs two full-time tech’s to keep all the equipment maintained. The second week following the holiday, my account was scheduled to take block vacation. Normally, I would have been assigned calls in other territories, to help out the other technicians.

That’s just the way it turned out, the first day. However, when I arrived at the office Tuesday morning, I discovered that Cheryl had been injured during the previous night’s softball game. She would be out at least a week.

The office manager asked me if I would mind covering for her.

Since I had been good at it, it didn’t occur to me to have any reservations about taking the assignment. Perhaps I should have.

First came an occasional comment about the nameplate on the desk, "You don’t LOOK like a Cheryl."

Jean was considerably less subtle, "At least, you could have dressed for the part."

Still, I was handling the job well enough, and by noon, Elaine Ross, our office manager, was generous in her praise. Jean had stopped by the desk to pick up service reports, and hearing Elaine’s comments, appended, "Sure, he’s almost graceful, working around the call station. If Ginger Rogers had worn flats, she could have made Fred Astaire look like a klutz."

Everyone in the office had become accustomed to the militancy of Jean’s feminist rhetoric and pretty much ignored it. Elaine, however, glared at her, as if to say, "what does that have to do with anything?" Jean took the hint and went about her business.

Still, she didn’t let the matter drop. Each stop for paperwork, she found something provocative to say, until she finally got the opportunity to make her challenge.

I tried to demur, "You’re making a big deal about nothing."

"You’re the one that claimed it was easy. What’s the matter, is it too big a project after all?"

"No," I told her, "I just don’t see any point in proving obvious. There’s nothing in it for me."

She pressed, "What would it take to make it worth your trouble?"

Elaine could hear all of this through the open door of her office. I could see that she was about to step out - perhaps to tell Jean that she was out of line - but she halted when Diane spoke.

"Hey, cut him some slack, if he weren’t here doing Cheryl’s job, I’d have to do both mine and hers. He’s doing just fine as he is, so leave him alone. You don’t even want to be the one who drives away my golden goose."

Unfortunately, neither of them had taken into account my ego. It had taken all the battering it could stand, and I was nearly ready to accept.

"How MUCH worth my trouble?" I asked.

Jean was quick, "Dinner, my treat."

"Get serious," I responded.

I think Diane surprised Jean, when she raised the stakes. "How about dinner, your choice of menu, every night for a week, the weekend included?"

I had to think about that, which was a big mistake. The question is: did I think too hard, or not hard enough? Hey, I can cook well enough, but I’m not such an ambitious chef that I don’t get bored with my own cooking. Besides, I wanted to see how far they’d bid for something this crazy.

Jean was about to break the silence, but something held her back just long enough for me to yield first.

"And?" I ventured.

Jean was aghast. It didn’t take any genius at reading body language to tell that she was ready to tell me where I really stood - which, presumably, wasn’t very high. Fortunately, she wasn’t fast enough.

"And the satisfaction that you really can do something most other men wouldn’t even attempt," Diane offered, as she gently grasped my upper arm. "All day tomorrow, skirts and high heels - do we have a deal?"

I certainly hadn’t expected such a hard sell, so I accepted without really thinking about the full implications. The next thing I knew, Diane was leading me to Elaine’s office to get her concurrence.

Elaine listened to Diane’s explanation, as though it were the first she’d heard of it. She expressed reservations about how my altered appearance might prove disruptive in the office, but, in the end, she gave her consent to the arrangement.

I suppose that if this had been a major city office of the company, she’d have been more concerned about "image". However, out here, in a predominantly rural area, nonsensical pranks were a common form of entertainment. Moreover, the very nature of the business was such that walk-in traffic was almost non-existent. Other than the on-site services provided, public contact was almost 100% by phone, FAX, or mail.

Diane quickly thanked her, then tugged me along, back to our work area. There she had a quick conference with Jean.

"Then it’s settled," Jean confirmed, "you’re having dinner at my place tonight. Be there at seven."

Regaining a little of my presence of mind, I responded, "No, that’s OK, I haven’t won my prize yet; you don’t have to feed me tonight."

"Unh-uh," Diane intervened, "We want you to come over tonight, anyway. You need to get fitted out, and learn how to get along with the articles you’ll be using. In fact, let’s make a list of your sizes."

This she proceeded to do, and, with Jean’s help, converted them to ‘misses’ sizes.

"Now, all we need," Diane advised me, "is to find people who will let us borrow the things you’ll need."