I don’t tuck much. I can’t say I’ve ever been much of a tucker. Tucking in my shirt, especially when it’s 135 degrees outside like it’s been lately, is like wearing my own personal sauna. It’s a lot of maintenance, tucking, constantly digging around in my pants, jamming the shirt tales down, smoothing the tufts that poke out around my belt.
Most guys tuck; it’s a guy thing. Guys tuck dress shirts, Monday through Friday, sure, but I’ve seen bosses, neighbors tuck polos, even t-shirts. When I’m wearing a suit and tie which is rare, a sport coat, whatever, if I leave the shirttails hanging out I look like a drunk who slept in his car. When the client’s in the office, finally, no conference call this time, no Skype, it’s a personal appearance, pressing the flesh, it’d be a huge mistake not to tuck. Tucking is the professional thing to do. I get it. No Hawaiian shirt blowing in the breeze when the client bestows his presence upon us. Gotta be something nice, something button-down. Traffic court. Funeral. First date. Got it— tuck.
But I see quite a lot of weekend tucking out there, guys, way too much... What’s up with that? In shopping malls and on soccer fields, polo shirts stretched tight over Buddha bellies or crammed into Bermuda jean shorts. Faded college logo tees shoved past the pony keg and into the tops of the ol’ acid-washed. A hundred or so square inches of extra cloth scrunched up in your pants, mmm, comfortable. Dude... give yourself and your waistband a break already. Weekends are let-the-gut-out-of-captivity time. If you love your belly, let it go kind of thing.
Two days (and a half, if you count Friday night) to finally exhale and unclench your butt, to leave the office at the office and slip the surly bonds of shirt. To let it all hang out, literally, and not give a tuck...
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