April 30, 2007
Not Really Suitable
Not too long ago I had to wear a suit. Honest, a jacket, a tie and
everything.
And socks!
It
was my nephew’s wedding, and my wife convinced me that the Dockers, golf
shirt and dress flip flops that I had laid out for the occasion would
fail to demonstrate the proper respect for the occasion. Even though
they were my good Dockers.
I
was worried that my nephew might not recognize me wearing a suit, and I
was right. He thought I was a Jehovah’s Witness.
That’s pretty much the way it is with me and suits these days. I wear
the one suit I own, a black Funeral Director Special, to weddings. And,
of course, to funerals.
There was a time, years ago, when I wore a suit to work every day. I did
this on the advice of a guy named John T. Molloy, detailed in his book
Dress For Success. Mr. Molloy believed that to be taken seriously
in the business world a young man had to dress a lot like an FBI agent,
only with better shoes.
His advice, thankfully, did not extend to dressing like legendary FBI
director J. Edgar Hoover, who, it turns out, liked to dress a lot like
Lauren Bacall.
All of this took place during the 1980s, a golden time when we as a
society decided to shake off the altruism and free spirit of the ‘60s
and ‘70s, and return to the core values of unbridled greed and
corruption that shaped America throughout the first half of the 20th
Century. Boy, I wanted aboard that train!
Before I was introduced to the idea of using a power necktie to
subjugate the proletariat, my idea of getting dressed up was to put on
relatively clean jeans and a tank top with no holes in it. My hair was
generally shoulder length, and every winter I grew a beard that made me
look like a scrawny Grizzly Adams.
OK, for a short time in the mid ‘70s I did own a “disco” outfit,
consisting of powder blue polyester pants, shirt and jacket, with
two-tone platform shoes and matching belt, but that is something that I
am not proud of, and that I would rather forget, thank you very much.
Like a lot of guys in my generation, my antisocial dressing preferences
probably date back to rebellion against a well-meaning mother who
thought of her kids as dress-up dolls. One of my earliest memories is
walking into a restaurant with my family, my brother and I dressed in
matching black and red pedal-pusher pants and “cute little tops,” with
white socks and sandals.
Yes, it is possible for a six-year-old to have fashion sense. And to be
suicidal.
My
Dress For Success visual transition from hippy to predatory
businessman had to be a little bit shocking for my wife. Even though she
had been on hand, and even complicit in the “disco outfit incident,” she
always seemed for some reason to be comfortable with a husband who
looked like he came straight from dancing in the mud at Woodstock.
And yet through those years of picking up dress shirts at dry cleaners
and gently reminding me that the black socks would probably look better
with the navy blue suit than the brown and green argyle ones, she never
complained.
Well, decades have passed and I’ve abandoned the idea of putting on that
Brooks Brothers battle gear and becoming a captain of industry. Other
than when she cleans me up for the occasional wedding or funeral, my
wife has her happy vagrant husband back. And still she does not
complain.
I
have no idea why not.
© 2007, Michael Ball
© 2007 Michael Ball.
Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.
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