I  am no morning person, and I’ve long accepted that.  After swatting at the snooze button for twenty minutes, the first challenge used to be what the hell I was going to wear out there, and a quick grab of workhorse pants and plaid or solid shirt would do.  That used to fly in the past, but now that my daily wardrobe choices are more deliberate, there’s too many moving pieces to scan the closet with crusted, half open eyes; mistakes a-plenty.  Then the missus and I started our Downton Abbey binges, and there I watched as was Mr. Bates dressed his Lord Grantham for dinner; as it happens often, I took my mind out of the storyline and into damn good suiting habits.  The valet, which I assume is named after the function of men like Mr. Bates, has been the foil to my low executive functionality for over a year now.  As much as I’d like to think myself as an adult and determine that I rely on my beautifully lacquered valet as tomorrow’s suit organizer, I look at it in a more vigilant perspective:

Now, I don’t intend upon cleaning up the city with swift kicks and monicker-themed gadgetry, but the effect is the same.  You step into the armory, look upon your work, contemplate the situation for which you are preparing, and suit up, man. My advice when putting on each piece: find the right “suiting up” music; every mental montage needs a soundtrack.  I prefer The Dove Shack’s “Summertime in the LBC.”  That’s my morning viiiiiiiiiiiiiibe.

“Why do we do what we do when we do what we do hangin out late wit no curfew?”