I’m Wearing a Bowtie Now. It’s Going To Be My Thing…

About four weeks ago, I decided that bowties were going to be “my thing.” 

And I want to be very clear here that when I say bowties, I don’t mean pre-tied bowties, the kind your parents would buy when you were a kid that came packaged already knotted in a neat bow and only required you to attach a hook to some kind of latch or loop.  I decided that if I was in for a penny, I was in for the full dollar, and that I would not be satisfied with something already completed, already fashioned for me. 

Fashion is work, and pre-tied bowties were the antithesis of this.  Pre-tying implicates the reliance on garment workers in some Asian sweatshop paid pennies on the dollar for making the perfect bow, where the sides lined up perfectly and the knot in the center tightened the right amount or perhaps manufactured by a bowtie machine, which when fed on one end the bowtie manipulated the thin scrap of cloth into the ideal form, free from humanistic imperfection and the emotional quality emanating from the not-quite-so-uniform arrangement.

No, I told myself if I was going to wear bowties like a hipster, I was going to buy only bowties in their raw form, long strips broadened at the end into an anvil-like shape, thin in the middle.  My wife and I went to JC Penny’s, sought out there bowties which sat on one sole table in the middle of their men’s department.  (I found out later that JC Penny’s had one of the larger collection of bowties with most other ties dedicating only a single rack of mostly, pre-tied bowties.)

We picked through the selection, seeking out those bowties distinguished enough to find a place around my neck, ones that would not too garish, but with class and a distinguish air.  I might pick one out, Valerie shook her disapproval at the pattern, placing another one on top of the pile, laying it out for inspection before.  It took some time, an exercise in patience for Valerie as danced indecisively around a number of selection until I narrowed down the candidates to five that I felt were good starter bowties.

They were of different patterns, various colors to match a number of button-up shirts I had bought, colors which would match but not blend into the shirt, to allow the bowtie to stand out in my ensemble, like a piece of artwork on a coffee table, meant to be noticed but not to clash with the rest of the décor.  I bought some solid ties, too, to match pattern shirts as well, because patterned ties don’t really go well with patterned shirts.

But buying ties is not wearing them. I imagined that my “thing” could have turned out like a lot projects men delve into, purchased but unfulfilled, left undone, because the act of desiring to do something is not doing it, and sometimes it is easier to say that you have plans to do it, eventually, than to actually do it.  It is easy to assume that the world will always give us another minute or so to do that last unfulfilled goal. 

The only real way to overcome this barrier is to jump right in, dig into the project immediately, not to let the time passed unused.  And so, as soon as returned home, bag in hand with my purchased bowties, I donned a button-up shirt and unpackaged one of the bowties.  I Googled “How to tie bowties,” found a number of instructional videos.  I watched the first one listed, and then watched it again, as II , standing in front of my bathroom mirror, struggled to shape the cloth I spent several dollars into a work of art around my neck.

Frustration resulted.  I squinted at the video playing on my phone, hoping that some detail I was missing would seep through my eye lids and reach my brain.  It didn’t.  I changed videos, twice, until I found one, voiced by native of England who seemed to explain it all in just the right way, so that, after following the instructions, step by step, I had put together a thing that looked pretty close to what a bowtie should like. 

And then I untied it with a quick jerk of one of the ends of the tie, destroying all the work that thirty minutes of shoving and pushing produced.  And then I tried it again, and produced another equally awkward thing.  But like a child, I adored it, its misshapen ends, the way that the strip holding the knot together slanted to the side, a crooked backbone.  I tried to help it the best I could, yanking on one end and the the other, lifting the bowed parts, trying to match the front ends to the back so that they could all be even. 

I showed my wife my creation.  She was not that impressed, reminded me that she had long ago suggested that I wear bowties and expressed a little disappointment that I had not listened to her earlier.  I was proud of it, though, this thing that had attached itself around my neck, like a baby monkey, its arms wrapped around its mother. 

But at the same time, it was uncomfortable.  It felt oversized, a little like one of those clown bowties, a large thing with an elastic string.  It felt sizable and noticeable, a experiment in gathering attention, and I started to question my motivation and whether or not being fashionable meant actually running against the grain, and whether doing so would result in me receiving a number of splinters. 

Uncertainty still plagued me.  I was determined to wear a bowtie the next work day, plunge into the depth of a social situation and let myself be judged by my peers, mostly attorneys who dwelt on the intellectual realm, and whose job was to see through the false facades that people put up, to cut it out and eviscerate while doing it.  If I was going to wear a bowtie to work, I had to be able to carry it off.  I sought out the advise of the internet yet again, Googling “How to wear a bowtie,” as if there were some magic trick to it all. 

Image after image of young men well toned, with well-groomed hair, some with glasses, some wearing jeans, almost all leaning up against some object or wall.  Was it that I wanted to look like these young men?  Not one of them was over twenty-five.  I had just turned forty.  Looking back on it now, I wonder if the bowtie “thing” was just a mini-mid-life crisis.  Instead of buying a car, I invested in bowties. 

I ended up on a webpage which discussed wearing bowties.  It confirmed my theory about patterned and solid ties, i.e., one should wear patterned bowties with solid shirts and vice versa.  It also informed that the colors shouldn’t necessarily match but contrast a little bit, to make the bowtie stick out a little bit.  It imparted that pre-tied bowties were a fashion no-no, that a slight imperfection in tying the bowtie was a sign of the extra bit of effort that went into wearing the bowtie, showed authenticity, authenticated the merits of wearing a bowtie.  I felt validated by it.

Then it stated that the true way to get away with wearing a bowtie was to wear it like you owned it, without concern about whether anyone cared either way.  It was an odd experience, searching for suggestions for wearing a bowtie as a result of having fear of the social derision that I might draw if I didn’t carry it off only to be told that to avoid said derision was to not care about. 

Monday morning came, and I picked out the shirt and bowtie.  I spent nearly twenty minutes in front of the mirror fussing with the bowtie, wondering why it was not being tied as neatly as it was the night before, as if I somehow had forgotten a step.  I managed the best I could, showed Valerie who was un-phased by the new manner of dress I had adopted. 

It was an odd feeling once fully dressed and sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast.  I kept feeling like a part of my uniform was missing, kept reaching down at my stomach, expecting something to be there and not finding anything.  It was like being naked, and yet oddly liberating. 

I thought about all the times that I had spilt things on my ties.  Valerie has collected a number of my ties which have stains on them in a black bag, to hold them until we get them to the dry cleaners for cleaning.  That black bag has turned into a black hole into which ties disappear, never to appear again, and I am saddened every time I lay eyes on it.   The bowties gave me the hope that I would never have to feed the black hole bag another tie.

I walked into work, expecting comments, askance views.  I wore the bowtie like I owned it, held my head up so that the bowtie would be out and in front.  If someone wanted to talk to me, they would have to address the bowtie.  It would not be ignored.

And yet, it was ignored.  No one really said anything.  It took at least four hours before anyone said anything, and then it was a passing remark, a “I like your bowtie,” comment.  It was anti-climatic.  And I now question whether this life choice I made which I took to be akin to choosing to marry or picking a career, was nothing more than a common choice, like choosing between wing tips or loafers. 

the few comments I did get trickled down quickly to no comments within a week.  No one cared.  I even saw another attorney wearing a bowtie.  I am tempted to ask that attorney whether he prefers pre-tied bowties or enjoys the challenges of tying his bowties.  But abandoned it when I figured that it sounded desperate and needy. 

I still wear bowties, only because they have now become familiar to me, and when it comes down to it, familiarity is really what fashion is all about, the way that are body conforms to the clothing because we feel comfortable with it, we fit the suit as they say. 

Last week, I thought about getting a tattoo.  I mentioned it to Valerie, and I am half ready to do it, ready to price the cost, to find a design.  I need to make sure that I can carry it off.