ONE OF THE UNSUNG GREAT THINGS about retirement is the simplification of one's wardrobe. Not having to report to work every day means you are no longer bound by job requirements or social dress codes. You don't even have to get out of bed, let alone put on clothing. There are disadvantages to that sort of layaboutism, of course. “Clothes make the man,” Mark Twain told us. “Naked people have little or no influence in society.” I wouldn't even want to try to calculate how much I spent over the years for suits and ties and shoes that I took off as soon as I got home. Now I favor sweat pants and kaftans. Shorts and tee shirts. Flip flops and mocs. It's what you might call post-professional casual. I've got no norms to abide by and no one to impress with my impeccable sartorial taste. My spouse stopped being impressed a few months after our honeymoon. My children were more concerned with their own peer pressures. But even with all this now long since past, I still have maintained a few holdover items “just in case.” I've noticed that my once acceptable ties are now at least twice the width of what's being worn these days. I'm afraid to try to get into the suit pants. So I'm hoping that nobody close to me dies any time soon. I suspect even a conservative black kaftan might raise eyebrows at the funeral.
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