Building the Back-to-Work Wardrobe

by Chelsea Boes

I’ve worked from home with babies for seven years. My uniform? A black H&M spandex tank top I bought twelve years ago during journalism school, some eyeliner for Zoom calls, and oatmeal-crusted sweatpants. These clothes never seem to die all the way. In the words of Miracle Max, they’re just mostly dead.

But this fall I put both my kids on the bus and went back into the office full-time. The time has come, my friends. The time for new clothes.

Buying new clothes as a mom is hard. Because it has been so long. You need everything. You’re still wearing that inexplicably comfy nursing bra even though your littlest kid can already ride a bike. And then there’s the guilt because clothes cost money. Because they’re just for you. You’ve spent years giving up your sleep, time, and attention and now dropping money just for you feels like learning to walk again. But you want to walk. You want jeans that fit, hair that thickens, lip liner that looks good on your face, clothes that appear more expensive and last for more years.

So you begin.

Makeup. I google ‘how to buy makeup for grownups.’ Then I go to the mall to find an expert. The lady doing my makeup has long gray and white hair, blue eyes, and flawless makeup. She obviously knows things I do not. I’m always mystified by people like her. I so covet beauty knowledge that I once bought a 1995 cosmetology book at the thrift store. Last year when I had the stomach bug and couldn’t rise from the couch, I devoured Bobbi Brown’s Masterclass on makeup application. Gorgeous Mall Lady matches my skin with Lancôme foundation. I admit I do not know how to pronounce this word. She chooses a good blush and red lipstick. I learn to gel my eyebrows. I hand over the cash.

Underneath. It’s hard, but you must throw away your nursing bra. Order something new online so you don’t have to go into a fitting and get poked and prodded. Enough of that has already happened to you during motherhood. I got mine from Underoutfit. So far in my experience, the hype is justified. I picked the color called ‘sand’ so I could wear white shirts again . . . to the office only. Then strip them off as soon as I walk in the door and preserve their life. Which leads us to . . .

Tops. They say you should get lots of white and black basic tees and camis for layering, and this seems wise to me. I also read that these basics don’t have to cost a billion dollars. Because even in an office where you aren’t perpetually cooking spaghetti you will probably eventually destroy them when coffee dribbles down your chin. Also needed: a great graphic tee, a blazer, an oversized button-down, a chunky cardigan.

Bottoms. Ah, here’s the rub. I’m 5’1, and almost all the universe’s pants billow well beyond my toes. So: Know thyself. Short like me? Find thyself a good black skirt. And don’t forget a pair of cozy black joggers you can dress up with heels. I got mine from Quince and they’re so comfy I want to cry when I take them off. In black joggers I can conduct walking meetings, which means I get closer to those coveted 10,000 steps a day.

Hair. My second baby took my hair. Not all of it, thankfully, but enough that my scalp started looking too bare for comfort. Magic solution: Batiste brunette dry shampoo. In this matter, Walmart and Amazon are your friends. Spray it on your locks after you roll out of bed, bulk to root, and sigh with relief. Also open the window, because the first ingredient in that bad boy is butane.

Shoes. After I sprained my ankle in college, my family doctor cautioned me that “high heels were invented to destroy the legs of women” and told me to deposit my multicolored assortment into his dumpster. I didn’t, of course. But for my own safety I did stop wearing heels when I started hauling car seats. Now I’m easing back in with a heeled boot with plenty of ankle support.

Shopping takes time. And also, obviously, money. Still on my ‘to find when I can afford it’ list: leather jacket, white sneakers, cap-toe heels, striped shirt, floral skirt, tall boots, classic loafers, statement belt, long beige coat, leather tote.

I roll my eyes at all the things I want. I’m no millionaire, after all. But I’m giving myself floating permission, after years of stringent economy, to more regularly invest in quality things I like. Meanwhile, the Ingles cashier makes small talk: “Are you just coming home from work?”

Mission accomplished.