There is no surer sign that I've crossed the invisible line into curmudgeon than this: I wear a suit to work every day and want everyone else to also. It's the second half of that statement that's clearly crotchety, but I ask you to hear me out.

Twenty years ago I started my first job at IBM. I wore grey slacks with plenty of pleats (it was the late 80s), a button down shirt, and a tie — my favorite was a red woven "sock" tie, may it rest in peace. On occasion, I would add to the mix either my father's 1940s three-piece grey suit or paisley suspenders causing me to appear to be a very young old man. (I have photos of this, but they are too terrifying to share.)

Later, I moved to New York City and got a job as a salesman. Sartorially, I visited a now-defunct temple of woolens called Moe Ginsburg's. An entire floor was devoted to American-style suits. Another to British. A third to the rakishly curved and vented Italian style. Bald men with tape measures who smelled of excelsior, cotton fluff and gin directed me to the wall of suits in my size.

I left that job for a position in England where I was going to be a techie. I therefore traveled to the Gap and, with the help of some remonstrative friends, selected khakis, blue linen shirts, and a blue blazer with gold-like buttons. My mother almost fainted. I appeared, she said, "awfully American."

When I arrived in London my boss' first remark was, "While you're waiting for your real clothes, go buy some suits." And so, off to Oxford Street, more old men, a copious amount of ale, and I was in 4-button black and grey suits and, once again, a vest.

When I returned to America, the suits came off. Freedom! I thought as I went into business for myself. Black T-shirts. Ripped jeans. The suits were stuffed far back in the closet, and I recreated myself as Steve Jobs-meets-Johnny Cash.

But what that freedom really meant was: I had no idea what to wear. My man-in-black ensemble ruined an account at McGraw Hill — the customer was appalled that I had worn a sweater. So I rode the aesthetic pendulum back the other way — to the point of giving a presentation in Armani to an audience of 300 California buyers in Polo shirts (and a few sweaters).

Without the guiding principle of a "uniform" I was spending more and more time worrying if I was wearing the right clothes for the people I was meeting. This led to keeping a suit and tie on the back of the door, many hours (and dollars) spent shopping, and time every morning puzzling over what goes with what.

So I've returned to the fold. The old men and their yellow tape measures have forever vanished, so I am left on my own as I browse the five styles of suit at Charles Tyrwhitt--three British, two Italian, no American. I buy them. I wear them. And I question myself no longer.

When I teach my class of college students, themselves arrayed in garb ranging from gaudy to grunge to garbage I say, "Why do I wear a suit? Because it's easy, yes. Because it makes me feel professional, yes. But also because it shows respect. Putting on a suit tells the person I meet with that I value them enough to dress up for them."

I ask the students to keep that in mind they're looking for work and even when they come to class — and maybe, if nothing else, to at least stop showing up in pajamas.

What do you think? Is the suit a sign of freedom or oppression? Is it a complete anachronism of Mad Men machismo and discrimination? Or is a suit a uniform men and women should both wear?