Dear necktie,

I first learned to loop you around my neck in the weird, near-embrace of my fumbling father as we rushed out the door in our "good clothes" an hour late, itchy for whatever.

In my 20's I learned some other knots. Some Gordian slips along the way taught me that tautness and tension are in the loop of the Adult and that most of the Adult pleasures revolve

around taking it off. As if covering buttons on a button-down, buttoned-up public persona could hide the pubic roots of "you-and-me" interactions or the erections straining against

the conscious effort of "just getting by." Bye necktie. I don't regret un-knotting you, knowing you or the display of my manhood, but I do wish the stranglehold of propriety'd loosen up.

I don't have time to tuck you in for motorcycle rides, eating soup, or when children wish me harm. Take a cue from your gay sibling, the scarf. Live a little and don't get down now that we don't hang

out anymore. You remind one of mortality, a "sign of the cross" like a snake and a fall. Believe me, you're better off well hung in the dry-cleaning bags with my good suits, tailored shirts and mothballs.