It may be only my imagination, but as I caught a passing glimpse of those walking about this morning, it occurred to me that Sundays are all about dressing up. While I would like to attribute this characteristic primarily to the church-going crowd, our morning venues today included nothing of a presbyteral or ecclesiastic nature. Despite my sparing acceptance of devotion by others, my own loyalty to syllogistic reasoning compels me otherwise. Instead, the fashion display was born from our routine visit to Palmetto Bay Sunrise Café for breakfast, followed by a stop at Publix for groceries, before retreating home ahead of the Severe Weather and Tornado Watch poised to scour the Florida Panhandle and nearby regions, particularly Bluffton and Beaufort.
Despite this modest exposure to local activity, we witnessed a surprising variety of costumes—attire exceeding strict practicality and seemingly curated to fulfill a mandate of sartorial reflection. However, I must acknowledge that today is March 16th, the last weekend day before St. Patrick’s Day. This, of course, is a day traditionally devoted to excessive beer drinking and anything emerald green, and today was no exception. The servers at breakfast wore green T-shirts over their regular clothes, though some went further—one particularly enthusiastic elderly waitress resembled a three-year-old in a green crinoline, matching knee-high socks embroidered with shamrocks and other festive accessories. A woman topped her green T-shirt with an abundance of sparkling green costume jewelry, which regularly impeded her writing.
Restaurant patrons also displayed their affection for St. Patrick—or perhaps just for beer—through various green-themed clothing choices. At one point, upon the arrival of a particular guest, the entire wait-staff gathered at the entrance, holding aloft an inflatable square adorned with Irish memorabilia, and sang Happy Birthday.
As I paid closer attention to the costumes around me, I discerned a number of distinct categories. One gentleman embodied the archetypal bon vivant of Hilton Head Island—beige khaki pants with cuffs, a striped blue and white open-collared shirt, a checkered sports coat, and tasseled burgundy loafers. Similarly, a woman arriving in her Lincoln Town Car proclaimed her place in local society with a low-key skirt and matching top paired with sensible shoes. Others were less committed to old-fashioned formality—one woman opted for denim pants and a colorful top, seemingly striking a balance between casual comfort and weekend ease. A tall gentleman with gray hair sported matching shorts and a muted top, his look understated yet deliberate.
There was also a young man in unmistakably athletic gear, likely signaling either a recent run or an intention to embark on one. Another young woman—who, by her appearance, broadcast a defiant individualism—wore a red baseball cap over tightly combed hair. Her snug sweatpants accentuated her ample frame, and her entire bearing declared, “What!”
We, too, partook in the ritual of morning attire selection. Beyond the usual ablutions, we chose freshly laundered clothing—shorts, boat shoes, Polo shirts, and either a cotton hoodie or a Viyella cardigan. Our intent was less about making a statement and more about marking the quiet commencement of a new week, much like the ritual of filling my weekly pillbox. This routine, a necessary repetition, was later punctuated by what my late father euphemistically referred to as a “complete evacuation,” thus completing the cycle.
In my haste this morning—I had risen at six o’clock to ensure an early breakfast—I forgot to add my Apple Watch to my ensemble. I use the word “costume” here in the strictest sense, much as Volodymyr Zelenskyy did when he was publicly chastised in the White House for not wearing a suit and tie. Without a watch, I feel positively dénué, as for years it has been an intentional symbol of my deliberation and achievement. My collection has evolved from my paternal grandfather’s Longines wristwatch and Ponchélon et Frères pocket watch, progressing through Tag Heuer, Rolex, Breitling, and Cartier, before finally settling on the purely utilitarian Apple Watch in basic black with a rubber wristband. Alongside it, I retain four Bulova wrist and pocket watches, seldom worn but cherished for their precision craftsmanship.
Yet, the true triumph of the day was not in our costumes but in the luxury of aimless dedication to sipping coffee, listening to music, watching movies, and indulging in whatever else stirred us in our indolence. Outside, the weather had turned stormy—an ideal backdrop for such a leisurely, unproductive habit.