I bought a suit.

I'm walking around in pumps with a clipboard. I've just made and alphabetized 60 namecards, and fixed a rather embarassing sorting mistake in the participant list. Thank god the faulty lists were caught before they reached the Ambassador!

In half an hour I'll don my jacket and go outside to greet the participants as they arrive. Due to security we have to make sure no unregistered people enter the grounds, and besides, personally greeting everyone gives a really nice impression. Then I'll clip the neckstrap on my camera, bring a notepad and go inside to follow the seminar; it's my job to cover it on the embassy website.

It was a strange thing, buying a suit. The first time I saw myself in the mirror I felt like I had died. Like, that is it, my individuality is gone. Is it true that you are what you wear? It certainly felt like it.

Of course, this first thing I tried was horrid. The store clerk had brought out a jacket that completely killed my shape and a boxy, hideous skirt. Like, you are large anyway so here's what we've got for you and it's not as if it matters.

No, that's too harsh. The Japanese are more forgiving of loose waists. Her suggestion made me straight-as-a-pole same width all over, said width being my widest point. On a Japanese lady that would be okay, you know? Or at least more okay. But my widest point is pretty wide.

After a long time I found my trousers. Largest size. Still pretty small. But cool.

Even though it looks okay, it feels really strange. My hair is in a bun. Business cards in back pocket. Making an awkward bulge.

Why is it that woman clothes have to be so impractical? No pockets, or tiny ones. No room for my keys or phone or anything. Barely space for my tiny card holder. And I guess skirts usually have no pockets at all. 

But you have to have one if you want to be serious in Japan. A suit, that is. Man or woman; suit up. Such formal! But suits are made for guys, you know? The female version is just ... a femmed-up variant of a style optimized for the manly man. It doesn't necessarily work. It doesn't easily work.

Whatever. I've been doing this job for three weeks now. I love it, even when it's weird.

Time to get going.

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I can't believe I didn't get a picture of myself in the suit with the whole camra-and-clipboard accessory getup! I looked so grown-up, proper and proffesional. You know, "ung og fremmadstormende" and all that. "Young and promising", I guess. Idunno.

In retrospect, I've learned that just because you look serious doesn't mean you feel it. In fact, it kindof makes being a total dork even funnier. Like a disguise - everyone thinks I'm this proper upstanding straight-backed individual, while I'm dancing in my pajamas blowing raspberries inside my own head.

Oh well. I did manage to sneak a dorky selfie while I was standing outside to greet the guests. That's something, I guess.