Wearing a Suit to Work

People in suits are easy to dismiss.

No matter how zany the tie, or how nicely cut the lapels, the passing of a full-on business suit is an excuse for free-thinking young people the world 'round to narrow their eyes, exude an aura of low-grade contempt and think: "There goes a dumb corporate dillywacker."

There is, of course, no shortage of grin-cracking, Bimmer-cruisin', whiskey-sluggin' professional mannikins out there to support the stereotype. In many environments, there is sheeplike safety to be had by suiting up. In some places, it's not even a choice. Come besuited, or leave in disgrace.

Choosing to wear a suit in many corporate settings is about as big a decision as choosing to wear a T-shirt while attending an outdoor Phish concert in the summer.

But there are marginal workplaces. Downscale law firms. Traditionalist newspapers and upscale magazines. Certain corners of the academic world. A suit looks fine, but it's not required. The only thing selecting the suit — or absence thereof — is the wearer.

Nothing, of course, is ever that simple. What we eat, what we wear, what we read, what we listen to and what we watch are all decisions that build, shape, redirect, redefine and constrain who we are.

And the way we look for 8-12 hours a day is an important choice.

But why wear a suit? Or why not?

There are two ends to the "dressing up for work" spectrum. At one end, you're scruffy. You're wearing scuffed-up shoes, possibly even sneakers. You're wearing a dress shirt, but with visible contempt. You radiate baditude. "I'm so good at my work, I can afford to look like this," you think. "Does this bother you? If so, I invite you to stuff it up your cocoa starfish."

Through the quality of your work and the dint of your social exertions you may still succeed, ragged, edgy, proud, and unbowed, but you're always a little defensive. "I may not dress as well as any of you," you think, "but I compensate with talent and drive. And, I have indie cred."

On the other end, you're suited up. You glide through the office, well-outfitted and confident. If someone's looking at you in a manner that you deem "funny," it clearly has nothing to do with your attire. That, if nothing else, is sort of a relief. You have injected yourself straight into the system's mainline, and your clothes call out in a joyous sing-songy wail of abject, paradoxically prideful humility: "Accept me! I'm trying, oh, Lord, I'm trying hard for you. I'm trying hard to be pretty."

You've made a choice by suiting up, and making the transition can be difficult. The downsides are numerous, and quickly evident to anyone who has donned the elegant fleece on a daily basis.

First of all, you can't really eat floppy, foldable pizza while in a suit. It's possible, but it requires either an awkward, neck craning motion to constrain the sauce's splatter vectors, or copious dry cleaning. Other foods are similarly forbidden: Popsicles, chili dogs, tacos and just about anything with marinara sauce are right out.

Second of all, you're wearing a tie. Ties are leashes. They are nooses. They are humorously decorated symbols of subjugation to a particular social and commercial philosophy. A tie says this: "I have chosen to fasten a flap of colorful cloth around my neck. Look upon me. I am adorned."

In at least one sense, Western culture messed up when it chose the necktie as its standard bearer of decorum. The equivalent in Yemen is wearing a long, curvy dagger, and while it's not necessarily a brilliant sartorial move in the current "war on terror" environment, it certainly looks a hell of a lot cooler, and allows for the rapid gutting of camels.

Finally, your suit rather stringently deprives you of much of the freedom of movement enjoyed by those wearing what are rightfully called "normal" clothes.

But there are tangible gains, too. Sometimes you'll catch your own reflection in the mirror, shoot yourself one of those little fingers-out-like-gunbarrels things, and think, "There goes one cool-looking sonofabitch." And sometimes the ladies at work will pay a respectful — if ultimately minor — homage.

But mostly, it's about girding and ungirding the loins. In the morning, you suit up. You put on the noose and grimace. You do the collar flip, the jacket shrug, the Pants... Power... ON!!! strut. You're not walking out of the house by yourself; you're armed and protected. It's no coincidence that Secret Service guys look so completely hype.

Then, after a day of whatever it is you happen to do, you get back home. The move from suited to unsuited feels terrific. You shed your skin, slip into something comfortable, and you're ready to party. Or fall asleep. Or go see The Two Towers again. Whatever it is you do, you're on the other side of a starchy barrier — work is truly over, and your body is cued up to chill.

Ultimately, most of our culture has collectively decided that 1950s dads didn't know what they were doing. But when 1950s dad came home, loosened his tie, and started into that post-corporate martini, he knew what was going on.

It just takes a while to figure that out. And then you're all grown up and ready to face your life as a dumb, contented corporate dillywacker.

— James Norton (jrnorton@flakmag.com)