It was Michael’s idea, obviously. He declared it “Dunder Mifflin Style Day” and made everyone wear something “fun and full of personality.”

Jim’s situation, though? Absolute betrayal. A brown wool hat, complete with pom-pom, ear flaps, and a pattern that looked like it was stolen straight out of an Icelandic grandpa’s closet. And not a cool grandpa. A grandpa that smells like onion soup.

You couldn’t stop laughing.

— “Jim. Be honest. Did your great-grandpa lend you that, or did you lose a bet to Dwight?”

He looked at you from his desk with that signature blend of suffering and sarcasm:

— “I’m currently reevaluating every life choice that brought me to this moment.”

From inside his office, Michael shouted:

— “LOOKING GOOD, JIMBO! SO COZY!”

You couldn’t resist — you got up and did a mini runway walk around his desk, perfectly imitating his face of pure resignation, while the hat of shame stayed firmly on his head.

Jim covered his face with his hand, but you could see the smile breaking through his fingers.

— “I hate that you’re enjoying this so much.”