The Black Suit Story

There are clothes you buy because you want them, and then there are clothes you buy because someone you love insists you should have your life together. My Grandma Dorothy was firmly in the second category. She had been on me for years: “Brandon, every grown man needs a proper Black suit. You never know when life will call you to show up.”

And because she was right — and because grandmothers always are — I finally decided to get one.

This was back in the wild west era of the Gilt Warehouse sales in the 2010s, when you got a tight two-hour window to raid a room full of discounted designer chaos. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I found it: a black Dolce & Gabbana Martini suit, the kind that instantly makes you stand straighter and reconsider your entire tax bracket. The retail price on it sent a chill up my spine

It was marked down to $350, which felt like divine intervention… except I was $50 short.

So there I stood, literally holding the suit like someone might rip fate out of my hands, and I called my friend Nora. She didn’t ask a single question. She just said, “I’m coming,” and showed up at the sale with the extra money like she was making a ransom drop. Mind you, they were serving mimosas that day, so there are pictures of me wearing a helmet and holding a flute.

I walked out with that suit wobbling on my back heel (because, of course, I kept drinking mimosas) feeling like I had hacked luxury.

And the thing is, I bought it because my grandmother insisted I should have a proper Black suit.
But the first funeral I ever wore it to was hers.

The Dolce & Gabbana suit is in this bag.