I have a problem with the concept of business attire. Yeah, okay. I’m a redneck.
Last week (Friday) I attended the third in a series of interviews in the continuing 6-month saga to reapply for my own job. Dress for something like this is typically business casual.
Those that know me also know that I’m a jeans and a t-shirt kind of a guy. I actually resent business attire, and unconciously judge those that are clad in it.
Yet, I’m a professional (degreed engineer). What, the business attired folks may be asking, is my problem then? After all, don’t the clothes make the man? And of course, let’s not forget first impressions…
It’s like this. There is currently a backlash in this country against people that actually work. Folks that use their hands…and their sweat, no matter how educated or skilled, are strongly looked down upon. The very kinds of attitudes that built this country, the folks that aren’t afraid to roll up their sleeves and get to work, the folks that have made this country great, are becoming the minority.
It’s not fasionable to work, and in our current society, the more you work, the less you’re paid.
Business attire reflects that.
The properly tailored shirt is long sleeved and restricts movement. I am a strong guy. I can split one just lifting something. The fabric stains from something as simple as a little sweat. Hmm. It was a 110 degrees here last week. Dry cleaning is a must.
The proper pants are a fabric that requires dry cleaning and pressing. Tailored properly they restrict movement. They are, to put it simply, fragile.
The proper shoes hobble the wearer. The soles are a menace on wet or other non-perfect flooring, the structure will not support the arch, and if you were to “walk a mile” in that man’s shoes you’d be bleeding.
The entire outfit has evolved to prevent folks from physically working. More importantly, it is a badge worn to indicate that they do NOT work, or that they can’t. There are people that are proud of that fact.
I find that repugnant. I’ve never minded a bit of work. Somebody’s gotta do it.
But I need by job, so I dug the proper attire out of the funeral section of the closet and shagged my butt to the interview.
Yeah, let’s play dress up instead of getting stuff done.
Phoney. Hiding. Proclaiming. All the things I find distasteful.
But I’ll bet I looked just bitchin’, roaring down the freeway on The Dragon in my black dress slacks, light-blue dress shirt, and . . . well . . . thoroughly worn motorcycle boots.
I am what I am I guess . . .