This one painting caught my attention.
I think it was a Manet.
My wife and I had stopped to look at it during a stroll through the local art museum.
It was a cold, boring Sunday afternoon, so we’d decided to go out for a little culture.
The scene was that of an eighteen-nineties croquet match.
Two questions came to mind as I studied it.
One, when was the last time you played croquet?
And two, how’d you like to play anything in a stuffy wool suit?
The men in the painting all wore jackets, vests, and ties.
The women had on enormous, layered, poofy dresses and gigantic hats.
It seemed the most impractical attire imaginable for any outdoor activity.
But that’s the way it was back then.
Ladies and gentlemen dressed properly for all occasions.
There was morning wear. Afternoon wear. Evening wear.
And, apparently, croquet wear, which, to me, resembled . . . well, nothing by today’s standards.
You can barely get a dude to put on a tie these days.
But, I have to say, the people in the painting looked fantastic.
They were sophisticated, but in a relaxed sort of way.
They exuded class.
And money.
Lots and lots of money.
Now, compare that scene with one that would not have found its way into a Manet painting.
Breakfast at Hampton Inn.
It was a Tuesday morning in one of the factory towns I frequent for work.
My go-to attire on such occasions is jeans and a pressed flannel shirt.
The combination presents a put-together appearance without suggesting one’s trying too hard.
I scooped some lukewarm oatmeal into a paper bowl and then took a seat at a small table in the hotel’s dining area.
Two tables over sat a guy and two women.
All appeared to be in their forties.
However, they were dressed as though they were nine-year-olds who’d just rolled out of bed to watch Sponge Bob.
The guy, for example, wore patterned pajama pants, a tee shirt with a hole in the armpit, a worn trucker’s hat, and a pair of camouflage Crocs.
To complete the look, he still wore the pillow marks on his face with which he’d awoken.
He had one of those make-it-yourself hotel waffles piled high with whip cream and sprinkles in front of him, which he dug into with a plastic fork.
The women also wore pajama pants and tee shirts.
But, rather than Crocs, they’d instead opted for fuzzy slippers.
Not casual shoes that resembled slippers.
Actual slippers.
They carried on as though they were at home, sitting around the kitchen table.
And apparently felt comfortable enough to dress for exactly such an occasion.
And then go walking around in public.
Which is certainly no crime.
But, I have to be honest.
It appalled me.
And maybe I’m alone here.
Yes, we’ve become far more casual as a society.
You don’t need a suit to make your first billion.
A hoodie will do just fine.
That’s who we are now.
And what’s the harm?
Does it really matter how people look? How they dress?
Perhaps not.
Maybe the pajama-pants-wearing, waffle-eating dude had recently rushed into a burning building to save a litter of golden retriever puppies.
And maybe the women were the cofounders of a local charity that provided pomade to orphans with cowlicks.
Who was I to judge?
They could’ve been outstanding people in all respects.
If breakfast for them was a come-as-you-are affair, so be it.
But still . . .
Now, to be clear, I’m not suggesting we don our Brooks Brothers for another round of croquet.
But I do believe in at least a minimum standard of decorum whereby one’s dress and behavior is appropriate to the occasion.
Breakfast at the Hampton Inn does not call for white tie and tails.
I recognize that.
But neither should it give anyone license to wear his goddamn pajamas in public.
No one serious, at least.
To be fair, there have been situations in which I’ve found myself under-dressed.
Which were mildly traumatizing.
There was that Harvard Business School Club of San Diego meeting.
It was held at a country club, with about fifty grads in attendance whose ages favored the retiree end of the spectrum.
It being Southern California, I wore khakis and a polo.
Which, I immediately discovered, was not the prescribed uniform for such meetings.
Everyone else had on dress pants and blazers.
I was already feeling like an idiot when a seventy-ish-looking guy pulled me aside.
“You know,” he said, “only billionaires get to wear golf shirts to these things.”
Chastened, yet defiant, I pulled off one of the few, well-timed comebacks of my career.
How do you know I’m not a billionaire, I asked him?
He gave me a smirk and walked away.
Asshole.
But point taken.
Then there was the time I joined members of my team for a round of sales calls in Germany.
I’d done business in the country before, where I’d always found an open collar and jacket acceptable attire.
So, I was surprised by my colleagues’ horrified looks when I met them in the hotel lobby prior to our meetings wearing such an ensemble.
“No, no, no, no . . .” one of them said in accented English. “This won’t due.”’
“We can just blame it on his being an American,” the other said. “The clients will understand.”
Apparently, the dress code for customer calls in that industry and that region was business formal.
Suit and tie required.
Not wanting to be the ugly, ignorant American, I insisted my colleagues take me to a nearby store to buy a tie.
It wasn’t entirely suitable for the occasion, but it got me by.
But I don’t want to ever just get by.
I’m not wired that way.
And I wasn’t raised that way.
I’d once ventured down the path of the Hampton Inn pajama guy but was resolutely knocked off it by my grandfather.
My grandmother and he had taken a buddy and me on a cruise as a high school graduation gift.
The first morning underway, my friend and I wandered into the ship’s main dining room to join my grandparents for breakfast.
We both wore tee shirts and backwards-facing ball caps.
It was a look with which I’d been experimenting throughout my senior year, but to which I hadn’t yet committed.
Upon sitting down at the table, my grandfather, a kind, but serious man, looked at my buddy and me and said, sternly, “Boys, kindly remove your caps while you’re in the dining room.”
The words bit.
And my friend and I couldn’t get our hats off fast enough.
To this day, I wouldn’t consider wearing anything on my head while seated at a table, or almost anywhere else indoors.
Especially while eating.
My grandfather had done me a terrific service.
He’d shone me the way.
The proper way.
Back at the Hampton Inn, I finished my oatmeal and stood to exit the dining room.
Before I did, I approached the table with the man and two women.
Excuse me, I said.
You don’t know me, but may I ask you a question?
“Sure,” the guy said as the women nodded along.
Then I put on my best pirate accent.
And I sang, Whoooooooo . . . lives in a pineapple under the sea?
Without hesitating, all three lit up and sang in reply, “Sponge-Bob-Square-Pants!”
Ah, yes, I said.
That’s right.
I thanked them and turned and walked back to my room.
Satisfied.
Actually, none of that happened.
No way would I ever have the guts to do something like that.
But how sweet would that have been?
Right?