With Memorial Day in the rearview, this week marks the unofficial start of summer. That’s great news for a lot of obvious reasons, though, if you’re one of the many men who dreads getting dressed in the heat, you might be worried. We get it. But there’s no need to sacrifice style in the warmer months. Just take a look at our guide to the summer essentials and enjoy the season ahead. No sweat.
- Jonathan Evans, style director
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Don’t slack on style just because it’s hot outside. Our indispensable guide will keep you looking great all season long.
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Dressing for warm weather can be daunting. Gone are the days of the layers, the rich fabrics, the license to pile on for the sake of aesthetics (and comfort). Now it’s all about stripping down and finding the right way to balance an outfit when every inch of excess fabric could transform you from cool and collected to sodden and surly.
It’s a challenge from which some men choose to resign. Not long ago, I happened upon a guy on the Internet writing about how to get dressed for summer. He described the overarching mandate as, simply, “damage control.” I admire his realism and understand his position. But even if you hate the heat as much as I do—and, man, do I fucking hate the heat—you can dress for the upcoming season without slumping into despair. In fact, if you really lean into it, you might find some unexpected joy in cooking up a great summer outfit.
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Paul W. Downs always knew the show’s protagonist, comedian Deborah Vance (Jean Smart)—after a five-decade career rich with triumphs, spoils, and setbacks—would be diagnosed with cancer and decide to kill herself, with professional assistance, in Switzerland. Her antagonist-turned-platonic-love-and-writing-partner, Ava Daniels (Hannah Einbinder), would be at her side to say goodbye.
“Everyone says, ‘Oh, you had a five-season plan,’ ” Downs tells me, with a wave of his hand. We’re seated at a table inside the Esquire office’s archives room—quiet, windowless, floor-to-ceiling stacks of print issues behind us.
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The important thing, he says, is to know when to push and when not to push. Women say no so easily to a married man. Luckily, he’s always been good at sensing when a woman liked him. He is sure he could have slept with any of them three or four dates before he did. Even now, as the field begins to thin and the waters recede all around him, the affairs could have started earlier, but he didn’t want to chance it, didn’t want to make a move too soon.
Sometimes, he says, you miss it that way. Sometimes it’s perfect, it should happen that night, and when you come back to it a week later, something’s changed—the boyfriend came back, or what was bothering her then is not bothering her now Still, you’ve got to go slow. You have to have exquisite patience.
Or so says my adulterer, as he eats his casserole of squid and sips a glass of white wine in one of the many northern-Italian restaurants where, at high noon in midtown Manhattan, the sidelong glances that cut the air signal not erotic intent but the mechanical act of covering one’s back.
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