Ow. This critique of academic fashion, Why we look so bad, hurts because at least in my case, it is so true.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an academic, even one given a clothing allowance, will dress like a schlemiel. Historically, academics have been the subject of both high and low humor. From the sixth century onward, how we look has prompted nearly automatic laughter from onlookers, even if the onlookers were dressed in twigs and had painted their faces blue. Why are we, as a group, so sartorially impoverished that we make other professionals, even those in the actuarial or previously owned vehicle sales forces, look good? (Just to make sure we're all clear about this one point: I include myself in this group. And I am including you, dear reader. Trust me on this one–the following observations are not about other people.)

Look at us. Glance around a room at a professional meeting: we look like refugees. And not refugees from an interesting culture. Refugees from Scarsdale in 1983 or from Boise in 1994. Many academics, who possess the bewildering self-satisfaction of the entirely self-absorbed, will not accept the idea that garments they purchased new in 1994 are now not only unfashionable but unsavory. In part, our collective reluctance to update our wardrobe proceeds from faulty thinking. Whether applied to clothing or to original research and writing, the academic often thinks, "Hey, if it was good enough to get me tenure, there is no reason to mess with the ideal. I found what fits me. Don't bother me about revising my signature style." This leads to distinguished colleagues looking so remorselessly unattractive as to make one long for the days when scholars wore robes.

I confess. To me, "fashion" is a synonym for "manufacture", style is something you apply to text, and "clothing" is a compound word made up of the roots "clo" (a unit of measurement, being the insulation provided by man's normal everyday clothing and representing approximately the insulation provided by 1/4 in. thickness of wool) and "thing" (The Thing is a 1982 horror film directed by John Carpenter; Thing is a character in the form of a disembodied hand in The Addams Family television and movie series)—that is, it's an ugly or frightening piece of insulation. I have ever aspired to remain true to my understanding of the terms.

I've always been this way. It's been my tradition to highlight my kids' birthdays with silly photos of them, and I kiss the hem of Fortune's elegant robes that my mother is not one to use the web—there are things in her photo albums that would shock the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred sane. She has a picture of me in my 70's hair, wearing a garish paisley print shirt and polyester bell-bottomed slacks…while fishing. And, really, that is not the most heinous abomination in her collection. Someday I must smuggle them out of her house and burn or bury them, lest they fall into unsavory hands and are used to scar the minds of future generations.

I wonder if the reason I became an academic was an unconscious awareness that they are My People. I rejected that blue-collar apprenticeship my father arranged for me because I knew in my heart of hearts that there was no hope that I could ever dress with the savoir faire of a refrigerator repairman.

My wife tries to cope with my handicap. She does most of the clothing shopping for me, because we all know that if I go into the store, I will spend the minimal amount of time to find something in the blandest possible color that most closely approximates the shape of a bag. A bag with pockets—I dimly recognize that pockets are handy things. Unfortunately, she's also limited because she knows that my visual system doesn't register items that don't meet my narrow search criteria. She could fly to Italy, spend a year's salary on a collection of fine Brioni suits, and hang them prominently in my closet, and it would do absolutely no good. She'd find me standing in front of it, whining, "Mary, where's that beige bag-like thing I drape over my torso?"

Now, I know that I'm an extreme case, and that article on academic dress is grossly unfair to the many members of the professoriate who I think look just spiffy. But then again, who am I to judge? I'm a guy who thinks the sheen of a slug's mucus coat is simply lovely. And these dust-ups between Belle and Will Baude, and Ogged and Belle? They are utterly beyond my ken. I'm like a blind man listening to people argue about what color to paint the wall. They tell me I'm missing something, but I don't know what.

Oh, well. It's for the best that I'm located in a small, remote burg on the edge of nowhere, interacting with the world through the lens of the internet. If any of you ever should happen to encounter my shambling, clumsily swaddled form in the real world, please don't be alarmed, and please don't scream. Pity is more appropriate.

(via Sharleen Mondal)