I logged into work and found myself in the middle of a firestorm.
It was the early days of the COVID pandemic. Terms like social distancing and quarantine were in vogue. And instead of commuting to an office, my colleagues and I were logging into our laptops from home.
We still saw each other daily, thanks to the magic of videoconferencing. But the camera cut us off at the shoulders. Whatever we wore below that point would not be seen.
Now, a debate was brewing over that just that details.
Many of my co-workers happily shared how they’d stopped wearing pants to work. They noted how they replaced those clothes with pajama bottoms, sweatpants, or workout attire.
I was not doing any of this. I still sported jeans and a collared shirt to my post at the laptop each morning.
My co-workers were incredulous when I revealed this information. They saw little value in putting such effort into something that no one else would see.
I explained to them that professional dress made me feel professional — and thereby act professional. I referenced the importance of time and place, alluding to Leggingsgate while making my point.
My colleagues heard me out. And then, we all agreed to disagree.
I logged off work that day feeling vindicated. But now, I wonder if I dropped the ball.
I recently addended a storytelling showcase in Dallas.
The showcase took place in a large performance hall downtown. One by one, raconteurs took the stage there to tell their tales.
I took note of what each storyteller was wearing as they performed. But during the intermission, I also took note of what the other audience members were wearing.
I had outfitted myself in a polo and jeans. But now, looking around the venue, I felt underdressed.
Surely, there were some explanations for the fancy attire. It was a weeknight, and many people had come straight from work.
But many others had not. They’d donned their finest clothing simply to watch others speak.
And as I looked at them, I found myself asking such pretense was necessary.
Clothes, you see, are mostly a construct. They protect our bodies from the elements and allow us to appear decent when out in public. But any nuance beyond that is entirely of our own making.
The finely dressed men and women in the audience were trying to make a statement. A statement of their style, their class, and their sophistication. But on an evening where they’d be sitting mostly in darkness, it seemed to be a needlessly risky endeavor.
I would know.
Some time ago, I went to a conference in New Orleans for work. One morning, I craved some beignets and coffee from Café du Monde. So, I made the mile-long trek to the venerable restaurant in my nice slacks and button-up shirt.
Once at Café du Monde, I took great care to avoid getting powdered sugar or coffee on my clothes. But there was no escaping the stifling humidity of a Louisiana morning. I came back to the conference center glistening, my shirt and slacks dampened by perspiration.
Risk had certainly outpaced reward for me that day. My quest to both look presentable and enjoy a New Orleans staple had backfired.
Back at the performance hall, none of the audience members appeared quite as ragged as I had in New Orleans. But it was a similarly sultry evening in Dallas that night, and anyone who had parked even a couple blocks away was taking a risk wearing nice clothes. A risk of seeing the muggy air muck up their wardrobe, and lay waste to their efforts.
I did not have that problem. My understated attire was durable enough to handle conditions outside the performance hall and in it.
I sat back in my seat and took a deep breath. I might have been outclassed, but wearing a polo and jeans was the right move.
What changed between that work chat during the pandemic and the storytelling performance? How did my views about clothing shift so drastically?
To put it simply, I started running.
Now, I had run plenty before the pandemic. I’d often hit the streets or the treadmills in old basketball shorts and some cheap cross-trainers.
But during the COVID lockdowns, I started running more. And as I ramped up intensity, I found that any old athletic clothes wouldn’t cut it.
So, I bought some new attire. And my running performance subsequently surged.
Now, I won’t chalk up the improvements solely to what I was wearing. But the attire certainly didn’t hurt matters.
Shorts made of lightweight material didn’t drag me down. Shirts with patterned polyester wicked sweat away from me without sticking to my skin. Specialty socks protected my feet against blisters. And supportive running shoes took the punishment of the pavement without disintegrating.
I was experiencing a real-time lesson in the power of function. And it led me to shuffle my priorities when it came to clothes.
Style still had a role to play. But it took a backseat to function.
If what I wore kept me protected and comfortable, that would be all I’d need.
This epiphany has changed the way I view wardrobe decisions. I still have a collection of fancy attire. But I only break it out when it’s necessary. Say, for a wedding, a holiday gathering, or an important work function.
Aside from that, I will remain understated. I will fit my attire to the needs of my active lifestyle in a Southern climate. Not the other way around.
Many have come to a similar conclusion as I about clothes. We’ve determined what it should be, and which aspects should matter most.
But when we try and live this credo, we find ourselves thwarted. For the headwind we’re turning into is at gale-force strength.
There’s a $1.5 trillion industry that designs the fibers we place on our bodies. One that is financially incentivized to hawk glamour to us.
There are generations of cultural traditions equating wardrobe sophistication with status. One that actively encourages us to dress up at every opportunity.
And, thanks to an globalized world, there are few contingencies given to climate. Formal dress is formal dress, no matter where it’s worn.
Add it all up, and we’re stuck choosing style over function, time and again. We’re left mapping our lifestyle to our clothes, and not the other way around.
It’s high time for us to think differently. To consider the true meaning of attire, and to build around that.
Some fashion purveyors are already toying with this. They’re offering up stylish options that prioritize functionality.
It’s a start. But it’s on us to take the next step.
It’s on us to define our priorities. It’s on us to make fashion choices consistent with those priorities. It’s on us to make attire work for us, and not the other way around.
Clothes are just a collection of fibers and threads. It’s what we do with them that truly matters.