I realize that I may be in a minority of males with this opinion, but I am horrified at the idea of wearing a t-shirt, shorts and possibly even flip-flops in public. If I guy wants to dress like he lives at the beach, it’s his right, but I must admit I don’t even care for dressing like I’m at the beach when I am at the beach.
There are times, especially when I am out of uniform (so to speak) that I look downright disreputable. Fighting to preserve the Sabbath and working every day means that Saturday is the only significant time I have for fencing, maintaining critters, working on vehicles, cutting grass, chopping weeds, felling trees, digging holes, filling holes, and such as that. The few available hours in the evenings are not sufficient for large-scale projects, so on a Saturday you will likely see me in a state of deshabille if we run across each other in Pierce and Company or elsewhere. I am sometimes shaggy and sweaty, and I might even stink – but if you think that’s bad, wait til trapping season.
Still, I don’t like being a ragged wreck when I have to be around other folks. It’s not that I am worried about being pretty (that ain’t never happened and never will) but I do like to be respectful. I at least want to get the goat poop off my overalls before appearing outside our gate.
I am honestly not sure if I still own a pair of shorts. They aren’t always practical for me, since I will, on a whim, wander into a welcoming stretch of woods to see what’s on the other side. I’ve been struck twice but never hit by venomous snakes on such adventures. In each case, shorts would have meant a trip to the hospital.
I do have a few t-shirts, but they are used only as a base layer, with the exception of one or two given to me by extraordinarily close friends.
I have never, ever been a fan of golf or polo shirts, since I play neither and have no reason to want folks to think I do so. I consider a golf course to be a waste of pasture, and I prefer stolid, solid, sane donkeys to high-strung, ill-tempered polo ponies. While I do have a few sleeveless shirts (generally recycled dress shirts) they don’t go past the gate, since I see no reason to show off my armpit hair or the litter of possums that may occupy the same on any given Saturday.
I do not expect everyone to feel as I do. I do not expect every man to wear a tie every day. My fashion sense is mine and mine alone, based on upbringing and personal preference.
That being said: Gentlemen, I implore you, please dress like a grownup.
The spark for this tailor-made tirade was a photo I saw recently of a couple I know in passing. From what I know of them, I like them. They’re good, Christian folks. Both work hard. Their kids are good kids. Their dog is polite. They’re an attractive couple.
The photo in question was from a rare and special date night. The lady was wearing a very pretty sundress and sandals. Her hair was fixed.
But the fellow was wearing an untucked t-shirt, loose shorts, and flipflops. Yes, everything appeared neat, but I immediately felt like he was being disrespectful to his bride.
The very idea of a tailored t-shirt — yes, there are such things — that grinds my grits the wrong way. T-shirts are for underwear, workwear, or (rarely) a tool for self-expression. They are not outerwear, in my opinion.
Then again, I don’t like small cars, small dogs, modern Remington shotguns, big government or the music of Whitney Houston or Taylor Swift. We all have different opinions and yes, styles. Those differences make life interesting.
I am fully aware that my personal standards are out of touch with modern society; I am actually thankful that my father was more a contemporary of my friends’ grandfathers, and that a lot of my habits came from him, either through genetics, emulation or training. But something he taught me always sticks in my head, especially when I fail.
I wanted to know why I was always expected to “dress up” when we went to places like church, or out to eat, or visiting. He explained that a gentleman dresses like one out of respect for others. Same principle for church and work: you wear your best in God’s house as a sign of respect for Him, and you wear your best to work out of respect for your job, your boss and your customers. By respecting others, you respect yourself.
I am by no means saying every man in a t-shirt is disrespectful. When we were desperately searching for a missing dog a while back, Miss Rhonda and I went straight to a cool restaurant with one of our best friends who had been helping with the search. If you have ever stomped through a Carolina bay in summer, you know there is no way to appear maintain a civilized appearance, but we were hungry, tired and frustrated. At least we washed most of the sweat, blood and bugs off before dinner. My buddy shed his outer shirt and wore a t-shirt to dinner. I was not offended.
I just can’t get over the idea of a lady going to all the trouble to get put together for an evening out, and her male counterpart looking like a slob, even an ironed, smooth-shaven, clean slob.
I do not wear a necktie every day. Sometimes on a Saturday, a sleeveless jacket replaces the vest I consider de rigueur. I frequently wear pants and overalls with indefinable stains as irrevocable as original sin. And I have harsh words for anyone who looks down their nose at someone whose clothes are wrinkled and dirty from an honest day’s labor.
But.
There’s a wide chasm between sloppy and what I consider honorable, hard-earned dirt. Some of the most honorable folks I know would have to scratch and scrabble to find something to wear that was absent a scratch, a stain or a shiny seat. They work for a living, and they work hard doing the jobs many people don’t want.
There’s a place for short sleeves and short pants. I know full well that we live in a region where the weather will send folks to church, since we have a good idea what the heat of hell will be like for those who ignore God’s word. I know long pants and even rolled long sleeves can be misery in August.
It just seems to me that if a lady care enough to put on makeup and a dress, then by cracky, a man ought to respect her enough to put on a pair of pants.
