I Wore a Suit Every Day for a Month. Here’s What I Learned

Last year, I did Dry January. I’m happy I did it, so that I never have to do it again. Of course, alcohol is best enjoyed in healthy moderation and good company. But corralled into the corner of a bar, with a friend of a friend of a friend recounting their grad school application process directly into my ear, I wanted something stronger than soda water and bitters.

I have heard many Dry January believers explain why they do it. (How could you not? Lunchroom Army recruiters are subtler with their approach.) And I suspect that the benefits people claim from Dry January, such as feeling good in the morning and focusing at work, can be achieved without forgoing alcohol.

You just have to wear a suit every day.

I think I got the idea from my father, who wore a suit every day for his whole career. There are many differences to how we work: he works at a big company, I’m a freelancer; he goes to an office, I work remotely; he sits in a chair at a desk, I recline on a couch with a MacBook balanced on my sternum. But I have always suspected that if I just put on the suit, everything else would fall into place.

This year, I put Suit January to the test. Thirty-one days of putting on a shirt, jacket, and tie, and seeing if it changed my life any more than skipping booze did. Can you actually dress your way to success?

The author at home, in his suit.

Photo: Emmet Luciano

The most common claim about Dry January is that it makes you feel better in the morning. My hypothesis: Putting on a suit does the same. Steaming your pants, tucking in your shirt, and tying your tie constitute a pregame ritual that mentally prepares you for the day ahead.

On January 1, I woke up hollow and bleary after a wonderful dinner the night before at an Argentinian steakhouse in the East Village. A giant ribeye, blood sausage, a bottle of Malbec all to myself, and absolutely nothing green or fibrous sloshed around in my belly. It was 17 degrees outside. Time to get dressed. I even showered and shaved. What’s the point of putting a suit on if your hair is greasy and there’s hair dangling out of your chin mole? I wore the new suit I bought just for January: gray chalk-stripe vintage Polo from an estate sale. I tied my tie, laced up my Oxfords, and braved the elements. I felt fantastic. Then, I traveled with my friends to Long Island for a hockey game. Sitting in the nosebleeds in my suit, I looked like a season ticket rep getting an early start on my annual quota. I felt like someone who had signed up to look stupid every day for the next month.