Someday, I am going to yell at the parents who buy clothing for their daughters with words on the butt.

Lileks riffs on the "John Roberts’s family is too well-dressed" meme.  I don’t know why that man is always apologizing for being incoherent.

I liked this:

I dress casually in the summer, because it’s hot. But for the last few years I’ve returned to good slacks and decent shoes and a crisp shirt and a tie. Grown-up clothes. Dad clothes.

A man ought to be able to put on a shirt and tie without thinking he’s putting on a costume to deal with The Man; he should regard it as the Rainments of Masculinity, the costume we wear to project the impression of seriousness. If we’re not serious, it’ll be apparent quite soon.

Likewise if we’re a peacock, a grifter, a poseur, a drone, a cog – the uniform only says that you’re part of the hard plain world, not whether or not you really belong there. I just know that I feel different in a shirt and tie. I stand up straighter. I don’t feel as though I’m owed more respect; on the contrary, I feel obliged to be more respectful. It’s hard to describe, but to paraphrase a drunken Marge Simpson after six Long Island Iced Teas – you guys in the audience, you know what I’m talking about.

I know what he’s talking about, too.  Mark’s been wearing a tie more often (to church, not to work—heavens no—we’re engineers in this family, do you want him to be garroted by the roll stand?) and I’ve been surprised how much that appeals to me.  Um, the tie, not the garroting.

I will admit to "feel[ing] a surge of resentment when I put on hosiery" sometimes.   I love dresses and skirts when I can wear them with sandals and no hose.   I’m not so into them in the Minnesota winter.