One of my last days in Manhattan
I strolled out for a morning coffee.
Behind the desk in my condo lobby
sat a young man who looked oddly
familiar. On my return, he was now
dressed a tie and suit and suddenly,
Victor our doorman was smiling at
me. I couldn't help but say "What a
difference a tie makes." The simple
act of donning an elegant ensemble
can set one apart from the rest. The
way one dresses defines who we are.
CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN.
Sadly not everybody seems willing (or able)
to dress in stylistic staccato. Instead most
have adopted a monolithic wardrobe that is
casual at best. When one walks into a shop
or restaurant, it's hard to separate the wheat
from the chaff. Often the only way to tell
who works there is a name tag Gone are
the days when everybody wore a uniform.
To avoid asking the wrong person a misled
question, one must go up to a cash register.
In Dad's day a suit signified a certain
level of accomplishment. One lived
in a world filled with people garbed
in togs that defined who was who.
The milkman wore white head to toe.
Any waitress wore a smart ensemble
accented by an apron. One's maid
donned grey by day and black with
organdy when she served your supper.
And the only man in tight jeans and
boots was a cowboy. Everyone had
a central casting wardrobe to define
their station in life. Life was easy.
Then... 1969 hit and it all went to hell.
My theory is that the sartorial rebellion
of my youth is the reason we're now so
confused. Somewhere, somehow, and
some way, we lost our stylistic stance.
Rather than embrace the clarity that a
uniform brings, we opted to "do our
own thing." The result being a world
where nobody can easily tell who or
what the other person is. While we'll
never go back to our forefathers time,
can't we step it up? Individuality isn't
defined as mediocre in the dictionary.
I know that I talk endlessly on this
subject. Yet sadly, few seem to be
able to embrace it's importance. As
I was traveling home, I sat in a sea
of mediocrity, better known as the
airport. It's shocking what many of
us consider appropriate attire. Then
suddenly, a beautiful young woman
strolled up in a pressed uniform that
gave her an aura of authority. Most
important given she was our pilot.
Nobody questioned handing her the
wheel. She was dressed for the part.
While Frank and I now live in the
boonies, we don sport coats for an
evening out. While there's no need
for us to ever worry about how we
look, we still put time and effort in
our ensembles. The purpose is not
to impress, but rather to inspire.
Most important, we do everything
possible to balance sartorial sass
with overt friendliness. You see,
we're all in this together. So why
can't we play nice, dress up, and
make the world a prettier place?
