A Formalwear Rant from the Shorts-and-Sandals Resistance

There are few things in life that make me question my will to live. Taxes. Missouri winters. Georgia pollen. Texans. Los Angeles traffic. And the torturous fabric we’ve all been guilted into calling “formalwear.” Humanity’s most committed attempt to conform and choke itself under the noble banner of “professionalism.”

Let’s get something straight before we go any further: I despise labels. Especially when people try to pigeonhole an individual’s personality, creativity or identity into a clean little box. When people do this to me, I recoil like a button-down shirt at a curry buffet: tense, terrified, and fully aware it will not survive the meal without a stain, a public meltdown, and a desperate call for a Tide pen like it’s a medical emergency. If someone tries to assign me a “look” or dress code? You will likely be the lucky recipient of a very creative excuse for not attending your company outing or event. Some of you are probably saying, wait, Jeremy told me that his dog had to have surgery. Well, she did, I simply ensured that the surgery date coincided with your event. Ta da!

Discomfort is impossible to miss, even in cartoons

Everywhere I have called home has had the same personal dress code. Jeans (or shorts), Adidas (yes, they make sandals) and a T-shirt. This wardrobe fits—like something designed for living, not for slowly cutting off circulation while pretending to care about budget forecasts. Practical. Straightforward. No hidden agenda and no willful attempt to be something I am not. May comfort reign supreme forever! Because comfort isn’t just important—it’s king.

Sweating through three layers of fabric just to impress someone in a meeting? That’s adult detention, plain and simple. Most of you call it a suit. That joyless, stiff relic from a time when fainting couches, lead paint and arsenic-laced wallpaper were cutting-edge. Suits are basically the uniform for people who want to look important without actually doing anything remotely interesting (can you feel my glare, politicians).

And yes, I’ve worn them. Regrettably, I will wear them again. Not willingly. Certainly not joyfully. Hell, I didn’t even want to wear one to either of my weddings (that’s right—two. The first one didn’t take). But tradition whispered, “The wedding is for the bride,” and I—being the agreeable idiot I sometimes am—caved. I shoehorned myself into a bland button-up and that silky, noose-like piece of neck torture to play the part. The moment the ceremony ended? The jacket was gone. That tie was off. Sleeves rolled. Collar unbuttoned. Neck free. And if I could’ve ditched those leather cinder blocks, they call “dress shoes,” I would’ve bolted barefoot across the reception like a man finally released from captivity.

To the young couple whose wedding I’ll be attending later this month. I’ll celebrate your love with joy in my heart and breath in my lungs—not slowly being strangled in the name of tradition. I’ll be well dressed. But I won’t be wearing a tie, and I certainly won’t be wearing cinderblocks for shoes.

Imagined cinderblock dress shoes

Who designs these medieval foot prisons called dress shoes? Clearly no one who’s ever walked more than six feet or stood in them for longer than 45 minutes. No arch support. No cushion. Just hard, plastic-like leather that cost more than your inflated weekly grocery store venture. They feel like they were crafted by a sadistic cobbler with a personal vendetta. “They’ll break in,” they say. You know what else breaks in? Cast iron skillets. Still stiff, still heavy, and not something I want strapped to my feet all day.

Unnecessary & unprofessional compliments are not warranted

Let me say this: I’ve had actual politicians and executives tell me I “wear a suit well.” As if I was standing around fishing for their unsolicited praise. One executive even joked that they might rewrite the dress code based on how I looked in one. My response? “Go ahead—I’ll quit before you finish printing the new page for the employee handbook.” I meant it. I’m not in the business of cosplaying as Secret Service just to attend your overly air-conditioned networking lunch.

And being told I “Look like the FBI”? That is not, I repeat, NOT a compliment—unless you think I want to spend my day being mistaken for someone about to raid a warehouse or interrogate your grandma over her place of birth.

In 2012, researchers Adam Galinsky and Hajo Adam introduced the concept of enclothed cognition, showing that while formalwear can enhance feelings of power, it may also hamper cognitive performance. So maybe politicians aren’t naturally out of touch—maybe it’s just a circulation issue. By 2015, another study found that 61% of employees felt more productive when dress codes were relaxed. So while a suit might still convey authority in certain circles, comfort is what truly fuels focus, reduces stress, and sparks creativity—all key to sustained productivity. Turns out, trading in my tie for breathable fabrics wasn’t just an act of defiance—it might have been a smart move for performance.

Even if suits came in more than four colors, I still wouldn’t care. You’ve got boardroom blue, funeral gray, don’t-wear-this-to-a-wedding black, and that awkward brown that looks like a latte steeped in regret. Meanwhile, my T-shirt drawer is a rainbow of colors and vivid graphics.  Mountain scenes, beach prints, and bold colors that have probably lived more adventure than your average corner office executive.

Now, I get that some people genuinely enjoy dressing “sharp.” And good for them. I, however, enjoy breathing, turning my neck, and not feeling like a department store mannequin. You wear your overpriced tie like a badge of honor—I’ll be over here in my Adidas, living my best life and dodging your gala invite like a telemarketer at dinner time.

People act like I’m the odd one out for being “too casual.” Meanwhile, my dad doesn’t even own sleeves. I just bought the man a sleeveless hoodie (harder to find than you’d think), and he will wear it with pride this winter, tan lines blazing, probably fixing something in the garage with duct tape and stubbornness. Compared to him, I’m overdressed.

Comfortability dressed friends

Consider this my official statement on formalwear: Keep your ties, your stiff collars, your

beige slacks, and those medieval foot-binding dress shoes. I invite you to join me at the beach, a bike trail, our pool, kicked back on a patio or at your office —sipping something cold, wearing something loose, and feeling very much alive, and definitely not being slowly strangled by a fashion tradition.

Comfort over conformity. Every damn time.