It’s awkward finding yourself less-than-properly-attired. Such is my life, occasionally.

Those that know me from my former orange-boxed existence know that I loath trousers and everything trouser-related. Yes, I hate pants. More to the point, I hate wearing pants. Societal and cultural norms are the only things that keep my lower 40 covered in public. Shirts? I don’t mind, and even like wearing; if the garments are mind-numbingly ugly (on a recent shopping excursion a coworker remarked, “You’re serious about buying that? It’s the color of mustard and puke.”)

I had nothing important to do on a random day before the silly season started: Routine office work, running around, and last minute holiday preparations. I attired myself in aged jeans, a green Ireland ‘World Cup of Rugby’ jersey, hiking boots, and a navy blue school baseball cap. Forcing myself to shave was the only condition I placed on this otherwise casual ensemble. (I don’t know much about Rugby Coaching, don’t let the shirt fool ya.)

The Vice Principal summoned me to a meeting. I should have known better than to dress like a class-bound college student. His office is bigger than my apartment. I envy the leather sofa I sit upon while in his presence. My attire didn’t raise any eyebrows, but I felt less than professional.

I retreated to the safety my own office, and returned the passports of my colleagues that I had collected the previous day for a police inspection. After said teachers went to class a panicked phone call made its way to me. The police were at the school, could I get the passports back and bring them to the administration building? Right NOW?

It happens once a term, near the end. The local authorities conduct inspections, of passports, visa, credentials, etc. While it is routine, that doesn’t make it any easier. Contact with legal folk does little to make me a happy, shiny person.

I like the police. My father was a cop and I’ve spent a lot of time with men and women I consider salt-of-the-earth-type individuals. At one time, I considered law enforcement as a career, following in the footsteps of my old man. It’s a quantum leap from that to teaching English in China. I don’t think about the process of getting from A to B; metaphysics make my head hurt.

Yes, I like cops (for reasons other than women in uniform are dead sexy), but they scare the bejebubs out of me. Being pulled over for speeding would result in a nearly-weeping Stevo being über-polite. I dread going to Hong Kong, immigration cops on both sides of the border fill me with unparalleled apprehension. In Canada I never did anything that would warrant a jail term and I feared contact with “The Man.” In China, here only by the grace of a sticker in my passport and knowing I could be deported should someone wish, contact with police leads to unbridled anxiety.

With this panic filling my entire being I trotted across campus to meet said officers, the recollected passports of my colleagues in my sweaty hand. Yes, dressed in ragged jeans and a baseball cap. The police drank tea and ignored me. I shifted from foot to foot, much like one of my Grade 1 students needing to pee.

Then they were gone. I had a tension headache building under the baseball cap, and a gnawing empty feeling in my gut. I had not put my best foot forward; said foot was covered in a boot that had seen many miles of road, attached to a leg clad in jeans that had experienced the same.

Perception is everything. Being seen as too casual, especially by those I can’t speak to, who have nothing to go on but my appearance, is a difficult situation (is between a tailor and a coat hanger akin to a rock and a hard place?). Have I learned a lesson? Probably not, I’m not all that bright. Damn Murphy and his law.

I may put forward a school uniform proposal so this doesn’t happen again.