Dad Chic
My closet contains a disproportionate amount of ratty clothes. T-shirts with giant holes. Worn out shoes that beg to be put out of their misery. Pants with mysterious stains that are too vicious to be eradicated by any earthly washing machine. On days when I don’t have work or any social obligations, I combine these tattered remnants of once-beautiful garments into something that (most of the time) matches. I’ll run errands or go for a walk dressed in these outfits, which usually leads people to wonder if I’m homeless or traveled back in time from the post apocalypse.
Being mistaken for a vagrant wasn’t a problem in my twenties. In fact, being young and wearing tattered clothing made me cool; a contrarian who shunned society’s materialistic brainwashing. Or at least, that’s how I justified my refusal to buy new clothes. It’s not that I don’t like fashion. I have strong opinions about what looks good and what doesn’t. It’s that I hate the physical act of shopping. The crowds. The browsing. The absolutely terrible mall parking structure where people don’t know how to park so there’s always a long line but you can’t do anything about it because you’re stuck in a one-way line of cars with nowhere to go except to your Happy Place and hope for the best.
Unfortunately, now that I’m a stone’s throw from forty, my ratty clothes no longer give off a contrarian vibe. Not even a whiff. They say only one thing: “This guy doesn’t have his shit together and might harass you for money so keep your distance.” That became clear to me this morning when I sauntered into the local coffee shop wearing old sweats with holes in both pockets, a grimy baseball cap, and a t-shirt so full of holes it was held together by its sheer will not to be cut up and made into rags. I could tell from the trepidation in the barista’s face that he was on guard lest I do something erratic like scream at the top of my lungs or urinate on the floor. At the drink pick-up station, the other patrons gave me a wide berth. So did the people sitting at their seats, each of whom cast me furtive looks to see whether they would be the unlucky victim next to whom I sat. Everyone in the store breathed a sigh of relief when I took my drink and left. As their collective exhale kicked me in the butt on the way out the door, I knew Ratty Clothes Ronan could be no more.
Like it or not, I’m a middle-aged man and can’t go around dressed the same way I did in my twenties. People always make assumptions about you based on your clothes. As we age, the assumptions skew much more negative when our clothes don’t line up with societal expectations. The contrarian in me wants to fight against society’s decree that middle-aged men must dress a certain way, but the father in me tells the contrarian to shut up and get a job.
With fatherhood comes great responsibility. My actions have consequence that affect others. If I’m out with my son dressed in rags, people will treat me poorly and, by association, him. I’m able to absorb a healthy dose of mistreatment, but I can’t abide even a molecule of bad energy directed at my son. And it’s not just about how people will treat us. As much as shunning societal constructs is cool, my son needs to learn what those constructs are. That means when we leave the house to interact with the world at large, we dress in nice clothing (or at least clothing that isn’t on life support). Maybe someday my son will end up being a contrarian like me and decide to shun society’s mandates regarding fashion, but that comes later. Before you break the rules, you need to know what the rules are.
I used to scoff at how middle-aged men dressed. So conventional and boring! But I get it now. The tucked in shirt. The khakis. They’re not so much items of clothing as they are a signal to the world that you’re a responsible adult. You’re a father who’s put his child’s well-being above your own vanity and desire to be “cool.”
I have to admit it’s a lot of work to build and maintain a wardrobe. But is it worth it? Absolutely. Because my clothes show that I know how to take care of my son. Or at least, they make me look like I do. Because for as much as I’ve learned about fatherhood, learning how to be a dad is an ongoing process. One that will take my entire life to master.
In the meantime, looking the part is a good first step.
