Updated: Jun 13
Yes, I call them ‘suits’. Whenever I see a good-looking guy wearing a suit, it's like Superman to my girlish imagination. There’s something about those sophisticated desk drivers that seem so dreamy. I guess you could call me a bit of a suit groupy.
Possibly they’re just stressed-out fragile men living with their own insecurities, but they still seem so cool-headed and unattainable to me.
Currently I live in the most exclusive suburb in Sydney, though there's nothing particularly exclusive about my life. I'm not the ambitious kind. I travel by foot, dress mostly for comfort and work as a domestic cleaner. To be honest, most of the time I feel more awkward than elegant. So, when I stand there ironing their kids’ pyjamas at the rate of thirty dollars an hour, it's like being on the inside of a dream, looking out.
Well, strangely enough, I wouldn't have it any other way. I've gone from cleaning caravan parks to mansions and that is a good enough stretch for me. As much as I enjoy being surrounded by the giltz and glamour of this place, I shun the responsibility of ever maintaining such a lavish lifestyle, or the pressure of such elevated social economic status. Maybe there’s just too much gypsy blood in me. I figure I've got the best of both worlds in some respects. After all, if being inducted into that life means that their pyjamas must be ironed, that's just a tad too fancy for me.
Incidentally, I was in the supermarket the other day when I noticed a suit walking directly towards me. He was flashing his pearly whites and making eye contact. So, I smiled back and racked my brain for a good opening line. Suddenly the earth moved from under me. Consequently, I lost my centre of gravity and fell backwards ever so ungracefully, taking out a whole banana stand with me. Lucky for me the embarrassment wore off as soon as I opened my eyes. Yes, it was just a dream.
However … I think that was a strong message my subconscious was giving me to just give up on the suits.
Copyright Jasmine Monk
Photo credit Wix