I wear.  Khakis.  To work. 

Me.  The girl who wears jeans 98% of the time. 

Me.  The girl who wears jeans with fringes and holes in the worst places 1% of the time, usually at home but occasionally in public.
                                The remaining 1% of the time, I resemble "a lady".  Really, a gypsy if we're talking about the kinds of mid-length to long, flowing skirts I wear.  I can move and twirl and dance around in them.  They dance with me right back.  Our relationship works out.

So this Khaki phase is amusing.  I feel a little stiff and boring in these not-easy-to-iron pants, yet I don't look too shabby.  Scary, huh?  I haven't worn pants like these since my days in a classroom.  And now they're giving me an odd sort of polish all over again. 

Yikes.

"I think you look cute in khakis.  No, I know you look cute in khakis.  Very professional.  I'd do business with you...," says my husband, Chris.

"....."

                                               


Somehow, conforming to a standard has made me blush.