Dress Code Violation

A story about costumes

I am currently in the middle of a road-trip through New England: ten days of camping along the Maine coast, bookended by formal weddings in Newport, Rhode Island and Cape Cod. Which means one side of the suitcase contains my tux and suits and the related “accoutrements” of such occasions; while on the other side it’s bandanas and flannels and all the gear necessary to mess around in the woods for a stretch. If the TSA had searched my bag, they likely would have been left wondering—and, frankly, that’s the way I like it.

Because, for better or worse, the things we wear tell people who we are. Look no further than a doctor guesting on some daytime television talk show. There is no other reasonable explanation for them wearing scrubs on set (they certainly didn’t just walk out of the OR) except that a doctor in a suit-and-tie doesn’t look the part enough. So the producer says wear scrubs and everyone instantly gets it: they are a medical expert. Strip everyone naked and people cannot tell you so much about themselves.

In a way, clothes are like costumes. After all, we feel differently when we have on different outfits. Work clothes / leisure clothes / formal wear simply reflect the various sides of ourselves and, consciously or not, we’re always putting them on display. And isn’t our notion of a “costume” just an outfit taken to the point of caricature? Dial it back and you might just call it part of your wardrobe.

Maybe this is why Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. People—myself included—often bring out sides of themselves they otherwise don’t or won’t. Put the mask on to take the mask off, you know, as the chance to be somebody else is the perfect opportunity to be your real self. (Considering I’ve been a cowboy the last ten years running, you think I’d take the hint at what I should be doing with my life.) But this isn’t about one night in October. It’s an every day idea. This is about using clothes to bring out / remind you of parts of yourself that you like.

I am no fashionista, but I once owned an apparel company—hats and tee shirts, mostly, for people who climb and ski—and when you spend all day thinking about selling clothes, inevitably you come up with some justification for showing up. This copy (lifted from the now defunct website) sounded like:

Sometimes at the old office, I’d put on a shirt with that lingering smell of campfire smoke beneath my button-down. It made me think of being out there. Because I’ve always thought clothes can connect you to those different parts of life. Like that hat you wear on every climb, the tank you always do yoga in, and the sweater you put on at every campfire. They take on this meaning that’s deeper than a piece of apparel.

I don’t sell clothes anymore, but I still buy that. I’m sure we all have at least one item in the closet that means more because of the accumulated experiences we’ve had while wearing it. Even hanging in there quietly, no longer in use, it’s a personal artifact with more visceral potential than a photo on the wall will ever bring. To me, that’s a case for squirreling away a few choice items to dig up in old age, for when you need a reminder of the living you’ve done. As Bill Perkins, in his book Die With Zero, says: we retire on memories, not money.

So, forget fast fashion and hang onto your clothes long enough to thread some stories through them.

I am pretty sure that after a week of being sandwiched amongst campfire-laden sweaters and flannels, my tuxedo will have gained some extra flavor. And you can bet I’ll be thinking about that next time I get gussied up for another black tie affair.

Yee haw.

Martin