During my nearly 30 years in the working world, I’ve been pretty luck when it came to clothes for work. Since I can ruin clothes merely by putting them on, I’ve been fortunate enough to hold jobs where those who signed my paycheck didn’t place any great emphasis on what I wore.
I was riding home from work about three months ago and heard two young people, who work as legislative aides at the State House, in a conversation in the seat behind me. The guy was complaining about how strict they are about proper dress. Apparently, you are forbidden to enter several committee rooms unless you’re wearing a jacket. The woman (early 20s; the guy is a year or two older, I think) said she could understand that. The debate ended up at an impasse. He told her she should try wearing a jacket all day when it’s 80+ degrees out, and she told him he should try wearing a dress (here was where I shuddered) when it’s 20 degrees outside.
A side note: I think there’s some unacknowledged high voltage between the two of them. She boards the bus after I do, and he comes aboard several stops after she does. He doesn’t always sit with her, and they don’t always speak when they sit close to each other. However, when he boards the bus, the look on her face often resembles the "love at first sight" look you see on children in animated cartoons, usually accompanied by the "Love Theme" from Tschaikovsy’s Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture.
They work for the same State of Ohio that I do, but we’re permitted to dress much less formally in my department, since we have minimal contact with the public. I usually wear collared shirts (although Steph recently bought some polo shirts for me, since she says I look good in them) and slacks (jeans of any color are forbidden except on dress-down days, which are Fridays and other designated days).
The first time I bought any "nice" or formal clothes with my own money was when I lived in Boston. It wasn’t for work–T-shirt, jeans, and sandals were my standard garb during the time I was typesetting The Harvard Crimson. However, when The Crimson had its annual Inaugural Dinner, I realized I’d probably better dress a little better than I usually did. The problem was, I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on this. The unanimous recommendation was that I go to Joe Keezer’s on Concord Ave., which advertised "fine-quality traditional men’s clothing, new and used, always a bargain." And I did just that, and for about $20 came away with a brown three-piece suit. (I had to ask someone to tie my necktie, though.) I made quite an entrance at the Dinner that night, and the question, "Is that you, Paul?" came up more than once.
Keezer’s makes an appearance in the late Erich Segal’s novel The Class. One of the five characters the story follows from their first day as freshmen in the Harvard Class of 1958 until their 25th Reunion in 1983 is Andrew Eliot, a self-deprecating guy descended from about five generations of Boston Brahmins who have attended Harvard since the 17th century. There are occasional interludes in the novel that are entitled "Andrew Eliot’s Diary," and in one he mentions seeing a classmate wearing a former dress jacket of his. Andrew had been short on spending money and had sold it at Keezer’s. (Ted Kennedy rented tuxedos from Keezer’s during his undergraduate days at Harvard.)
When it came to church, my dress had become much more conservative in Boston than when I was in Marietta. There, I often wore jeans and work shirts. In Boston, I attended about three Unitarian churches about equally. One featured pews that had doors (it made you feel like you were in a penalty box), and one congregation was about a hundred years older than the United States. So, I made it a point to wear a shirt with a collar every Sunday. The ghosts of haughty Transcendentalists of the 19th century still lurked in every corner in these congregations.
The U.S. Postal Service has a (mostly deserved) reputation for overemphasizing conformity, but when I worked there, the rules about clothing (at least for those of us who worked behind the scenes) were pretty lax. They only seemed to be strict about jewelry and footwear, and that was only for safety reasons. Dangling jewelry could get caught in machinery–a device that can sort 10 thousand letters into 200 different separations in less than two minutes could make mincemeat out of a bracelet or a ring, along with the appendage it adorns.
As much as I loathe uniforms, I saw the advantage to them when I worked at the Mail-Order Pharmacy. When I had a question about a prescription, all I had to do was look for someone wearing a white coat. That person was a pharmacist, and he or she could answer the question I had.
When I worked at the IRS as an appointment clerk, I didn’t wear a jacket, but I wore a dress shirt and tie every day, sometimes with a sweater vest. However, one morning I left for work in a hurry, and it wasn’t until I was in the elevator in the Federal Building that I realized I had forgotten to put on my tie. No one said anything about it, supervisor or otherwise. So I "forgot" my tie the next day, and decided I’d go without one until someone said I needed to wear one again. No one ever did. I was glad, because I do not like neckties, even the clip-on ones I’d wear for concerts and weddings as a child.
I think the last time I wore a tie was for the job interview for the job I have now. I’m not even sure I own one now.
Melville at the Customs-House 