“Dad, why do you always wear nice clothes on a Saturday? I mean, you have on a nice shirt and stuff. To go to Costco.”
This was not a compliment. It was an indictment on my personal style. See, a while back I ran a men’s lifestyle website with a good friend of mine. Our whole shtick was that most guys don’t know or care about looking good and behaving well, but should. We gave it to them as guys, not fashion gurus or former models. Care because it makes a difference; because people notice; because you might get laid. Just Be Better Guys. And while I always cared about clothes, having the business meant I had to look the part, even on weekends. Sweats and t-shirts? Only if I am heading to the gym or lounging in the morning at the house. Jeans to work? Maybe 5 times a year, usually with a move or a holiday as the excuse. It drives my wife crazy, who is an acceptably dressed, business-causal modern woman, but thinks I’m nuts. If I wear a sports jacket to party or night out, it’s too much. Why get dressed up for a movie? It’s dark anyway.
I blame my mom. I couldn’t go out to a department store or downtown without a button-down shirt and long pants, at least. For several years after, I rebelled–horrible pants known as “action slacks” around the 1980s DMV (District, Maryland, and Virginia), baseball caps with the crowns pushed in. My dad cared, but only if it was church or a special event. As long as my shoes were polished and tie was tied, I was good. He did take offense to my desire to wear shiny maroon pants to a wedding. My older brother has a nickel in this dime, too. He’s always been a clotheshorse. This is a man who hasn’t owned a pair of jeans since the Reagan administration. He worked me into some semblance of an acceptable-looking male before I took it on from there.
My own style ranges from somewhat preppy to 60s jazz crooner. I love color and would rather be a bit over the top than too understated. I’m against Crocs, the over-proliferation of plaid flannel shirts as an urbane fashion statement, suits with sneakers, people who don’t own an iron, and too much starch in your shirts. I’m a big believer in season-appropriate gear, so regardless of what my wife says, I love white pants in the summer, draw the line at the full Cleveland.
My girls have now internalized this struggle between getting dressed and dressing up. One would wear dresses and patent leather Mary Janes every day; the other prefers sweats and her Nike running shoes over anything. Both love bright colors and but are really careful about making sure their clothes match–my wife used to yell “no match!” at her dad when she was a kid, so the girls get it honestly. They seem to like dad when I “look handsome” but just not to overdue it. Which means no poplin suit for brunch on Sunday. And I had the perfect shirt for it, too.