War of the Buttons

You know what the slowest part of my day is? Getting dressed.

I don’t care what you say about broken down Metros, waiting in line at the supermarket, sitting through prime time commercials, or sitting through corporate training initiatives, nothing sucks more meaningless time out of your agenda than getting dressed in the morning. I’m not advocating going to work lacking attire; I just find the whole “putting clothes on” routine to be a tad tedious. It’s not the process or the outcome that I have a problem with – it’s the convention.

Right now, the standard formal business attire for men at most offices has changed little over the last century or so. A suit or nice pair of pants takes precedence over jeans, and a good pair of dress shoes and socks can oust sandals from the picture. I have no problem with this part. If it takes you longer that 15 seconds to put on a pair of pants in the morning, you are either a) not awake enough to be dealing with such high-tech threads or b) those aren’t your pants, stupid – that’s your laundry bag. No, the reason I find getting dressed in the morning to be a drawn out exercise in inefficiency comes courtesy of the dress shirt.

A dress shirt has 13 buttons.

Trust me, I count them every morning. 4 on the sleeves, 2 by the collar, and 7 down the front. And by the time you get through the whole baker’s dozen, NBC has cancelled half of their new shoes, we’re up to Hurricane Zeke, and your Eggo waffle is icy cold in the toaster…again. To me, 13 buttons just seems overly complicated for a garment whose sole job is to cover one’s torso. It simply slows down the whole getting to work process. Here, I’ll show you.

If there are thirteen buttons to button on my shirt, it will take me 45 minutes to leave my bedroom, get to work and be at my desk, typing this blog.

If there are twelve buttons, my waffle doesn’t get cold, and I don’t have to wait another two minutes while I let it regain some warmth with a second whirl in the toaster oven. 43 minutes.

If there are eleven buttons, I’m ahead of a schedule that makes me turn on Sports Center, only to get sucked into Peter Gammons’ entrancing editorial on the Wild Card race. 39 minutes.

If there are ten buttons, I don’t rush out the door to make up time, only to leave my cell phone on the counter and have to run back in to grab it. 37 minutes.

If there are nine buttons, I stop on the third floor landing to look across the parking lot and locate where I parked my car, rather than aimlessly wandering through said lot in search of the elusive Honda. I need a homing beacon sometimes. 34 minutes.

If there are eight buttons, I’m in the car at 6:58, just in time to hear the traffic and weather on the talk radio station, which would help my commute greatly. 27 minutes.

If there are seven buttons, I’m not stuck at the gate waiting while the woman with the three dogs on leashes in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other untangles herself right in the middle of the road. 26 minutes.

If there are six buttons, I make the light at Wegman’s rather than sitting at red, pondering if it’s faster to take a shopping cart to work by lassoing the back of a metro bus and sitting inside it. 23 minutes.

If there are five buttons, there’s an open pump at the gas station. Right now, I’ve managed to pick the exact time when people decide to leave their cars at the pump to buy donuts inside the Kwikkimart. 19 minutes.

If there are four buttons, I don’t get stuck behind the school bus for 3 long miles. Enough said. 11 minutes.

If there are three buttons, the last spot on the upper level of the parking garage is still open, and I don’t have to park in the SAICatacombs, where my car will be that much closer to the center of the Earth. 8 minutes.

If there are two buttons, I’m wearing a polo shirt.