Dress Codes are Sexist, from My Head to My Pretty Feet.

Earth's northern hemisphere is slowly swaying toward the summer solstice.
Here, north of the 49th parallel, that is no insignificant phenomenon.
Parkas are parked, tuques are tucked away, and scarves strangle mittens into tiny bundles in cedar cupboards until next winter.
Jeans are replaced by shorts, long sleeves are truncated, and toes tuck and stretch as they peek through open toed shoes. 
Unless you're a guy looking for a decent meal in a nice restaurant.

Last week I reported for a 7:30 reservation at a French restaurant at a beach resort. I was turned away at the door because of my shoes. The hostess referred to the etching on the front door which specified "Closed Shoes" for men. 
I was wearing an ironed, button down shirt, black dress pants, and expensive leather sandals; it was 90 degrees outside.
No matter, a dress code is a dress code. I returned to my room and slipped on my gaudy, plaid, close-toed loafers. 
I clashed, but I was legal.

As I sat at my table I noticed all the women's toes marching by. Painted toes, bland toes, thin toes, fat toes, clean toes, furry toes. 
The bistro's problem wasn't really with my toes, but rather with my testicles.
The sign should read: if you have testicles, you must cover your toes – regardless of the pedicure you paid a fortune for earlier that day. If you have ovaries, you may expose as many digits as you please, regardless of the waxing or podiatric attention they may require.

Patrons also included men whose idea of respecting the 'closed shoes and no sleeveless shirt' dress code included: New England Patriots football shirts, old sneakers and soccer tops.
Clearly Metrosexual concepts had failed to reach not only management in these parts, but also the majority of clientele.
Women at all stages of cleanliness and casual dress apparently needed only heed a 'no flip-flop' rule.
The plunging neckline of a tight t-shirt straining to reach the beltline of a casually rumpled skirt was welcome at most other tables. But not my exposed toes.

What restaurants need is not a 'Dress' code; rather an 'Idiocy' code.
They should replace etchings on front doors with: "It's a formal restaurant, dude. Don't be an idiot. Pretend you're on a first date." Although for many men, that still means NFL gear.

It's time for the next evolution in men's mainstream formal wear. We need an alternative to suits at weddings and other functions, especially during summer months.
It is impossible not to get hot under the collar when your collar is cinched around your larynx guarded by a full Windsor.
No, I won't wear a kilt. I'm not Scottish, and I don't need something woolly near my Willy.
I also needn't dress like Tootsie to be comfortable. But, proper summer slacks (Did I just use the word 'slacks'? I really am getting old) and a light shirt should be equally as acceptable as a summer dress.
And, as for my exposed toes, I show them off proudly. This is, after all, the digital age.