This job may be hazardous to your wardrobe.

I dig my job. I don't think its a secret that I'm the paralegal for an investment banking firm. You can probably imagine the level of formality (for L.A.) and the lack of any sort of physical labor. Sure, I've been known to carry a box. But, for the most part, I'm beating on a computer or stacks of vicious paper, bending them to my legal will. I've been known to really expect a lot from my attire at lunch, sitting with Regina, knitting, kicking off my 4 inch heels for a chance at taking in a bit of vitamin E before heading back into the land of florescent light.

So, its rather odd that clothing is just bowing in submission. In all of my years of actual physical work, running around in suits and heels carrying boxes and baskets and racks of clothes, I ran stockings but never lost entire articles of clothing. There I was surrounded by clothes and not once did I ever need to buy anything for use that day other than hosiery. And yet today we had yet another casualty.

I'm sure the fug girls would be happy to hear that my favorite black Donna Karan leggings committed suicide. A huge hole attacked my thigh and raged on for the last hour of my day. And this is just the latest death. We've lost our favorite black dress, two pairs of shoes, a khaki skirt and a shirt. Some have gone quietly. The shoes, like the leggings, died towards the end of the day. Others, like the skirt, did their little dance first thing in the morning, in the middle of Century Park West for a nice man in a Mercedes to let us know about. Then there was the black dress that ripped slowly, my only hint was the draft as I walked to Gelson's for my morning muffin. Needless to say, not only do I keep a sewing kit at work, but I now keep a box of safety pins and have used both on several occasions.

If you can't find me at work, knock on the handicapped stall in the 5th floor ladies room. Odds are good, I'm sitting in the chair in there sewing up something so I can finish my day.