I would follow him as he made his way from the bathroom to his closet each morning. He'd stand and pause. Already in his briefs, he would push the hangers along the metal rod to choose just the right suit for the day. I could almost taste the sound of the metal on metal as I sat on the reclining chair in my parents' bedroom. My pajama bottoms still a bit twisted at the waist from rolling around all night. My socks flopping off my feet at the toes. I knew it was time for the show. To me, his suits were all some version of the same thing, but I knew that to him, to a man, this was a decision to be made. I watched and studied his every nuance about how he'd zip the pants enough to keep them from falling back to his ankles, but open enough to allow him to do the tucking in of his shirt that he did so methodically. Front right side. Left front. Back, back, back. Button. Zip. All tucked neatly in the trousers. Arms up. Arms down. To create a bit of slack so that he could move freely.
I was fascinated by each step of his morning rituals. They were all so seemingly important. He not only had to choose a suit and a shirt and a tie (that would all somehow coordinate), but he got to drive over a bridge to open his clothing stores. That, too, was quite a task only a grownup could get to enjoy. Moreover, once at his store, he and all of his strength had to lift the metal gates. He even had to enter a code on a key pad-- how Maxwell Smart of him!