Bunny Slipper Thursdays

It was an ordinary Tuesday morning when Carl found himself in a remarkable situation. He had woken up late, spilled coffee on his one clean work shirt, and dashed out of his apartment, barely managing to grab his bag. It wasn’t until he was halfway to the office, packed onto a crowded subway, that he glanced down and realized he was still sporting his bunny slippers.

Pink. Fuzzy. Floppy-eared. And now, the center of attention for every commuter within a five-foot radius.

Carl, a mild-mannered accountant with the adventurous spirit of a potato, considered going back home to change. But then he checked his watch. If he returned now, he’d be late for the third time this month. His boss, Mr. Witherspoon, had the patience of a disgruntled cat, and Carl couldn’t risk another lecture about "professionalism in the modern workplace."

So, with his dignity tightly packed away, he trudged onward, brushing off the occasional laughter from fellow commuters.

The instant he entered the office, his coworker Jerry’s eyes widened with excitement. “Carl, my friend! Didn’t realize it was Casual Bunny Day.”

Carl sighed. “It’s not.”

Jerry grinned. “Oh, it is now.” He pulled out his phone. Carl knew exactly what to expect—within moments, a picture of his slippers had reached the company’s group chat. By the time he reached his desk, he had already received five bunny-related jokes from various coworkers. Someone even emailed him a Photoshopped masterpiece featuring his face on a rabbit’s body with the caption: Hoppin’ into Q2 like...

Then came the dreaded moment.

“Carl. My office. Now.”

Mr. Witherspoon’s voice was like thunder on a clear day. Carl gulped. This was it. He was about to be fired over his footwear. He followed his boss inside, bracing for the worst.

But instead of yelling, Mr. Witherspoon simply stared at Carl’s feet, stroking his chin as though pondering the meaning of existence.

“Carl,” he said, in the tone of a man deeply conflicted, “where did you find those?”

Carl blinked. “Uh… Target?”

Mr. Witherspoon nodded slowly, then, with the gravity of a magician revealing his best trick, lifted his pant leg slightly to display—a matching pair of bunny slippers.

Carl nearly fell over.

“You realize, of course, that I must uphold a certain image in this office,” Mr. Witherspoon continued, adjusting his tie. “However… I have been searching for a pair just like these. Are they comfortable?”

Carl, unsure whether this was a test, nodded. “Very.”

There was an extended silence. Then, in a voice just above a whisper, Mr. Witherspoon breathed, “Nice.”

The next morning, the entire office arrived to find a memo on their desks:

New Company Policy: Optional Bunny Slipper Thursdays.

At first, everyone assumed it was a joke—until Mr. Witherspoon himself walked in, adjusting his cuffs, wearing a new, pristine pair of executive-level bunny slippers.

By lunchtime, Jerry had acquired a pair of lime-green frog slippers. Barbara from HR wore ones that resembled tiny sharks. The entire accounting team showed up with coordinating koala-themed footwear.

Carl, the unintentional trendsetter, leaned back in his chair, watching the magic unfold. Jerry passed him with a wink. “Nice job, trendsetter.”

Carl smiled. Perhaps being late wasn’t so terrible after all.