If you find me in a suit, you might want to offer your condolences, as there’s a good chance somebody died. Paper thin fabric, strangling neckties, and Pilgrim shoes are not my scene. And for whatever reason, a freshly pressed shirt attracts food stains with the same voracious affinity that a Walmart draws in mullets and IROC Camaros.

A part-time (read: beer money) job interview came calling recently, and to my dismay, jeans and a sweatshirt were not going to cut it. I plucked a suit from the back of my closet, shooed away the moths, and did a dry-fitting just to ensure textile integrity.

Houston, we have a problem. And not even Tom Hanks could rescue this mission. If these suit pants didn’t explode shortly after button-up, they certainly never would have survived the friction of re-entry. Must be the pants, right? Incorrect, sir. Six pairs of pants later followed by a meltdown that would have made a teenage girl swoon with confused pride, it was confirmed: I’ve swollen like a brined turkey since my last funeral.

Thank the good god of knitted garments that late on a Wednesday night, suburban Kohl’s was still open. (And at 10:30pm, they’ve got the “chunky-procrastinator” market cornered.) Fifteen minutes later, I was the proud new owner of a snazzy button-down and a pair of slacks that preemptively donned elastic built into the clasp. America!

The next morning, I stopped by a coffee shop to kill a little time before my interview. As I traded the cashier money (and dignity) for a slimming banana in lieu of a pastry, the middle button on my virgin shirt base-jumped off my midsection and rested lifelessly on the hardwood. Well, shit.

But oddly, this is when the day took a turn. Neighboring the coffee shop happened to be a dry cleaner. While it was only a drop-off center, the guy at the counter fortunately had nimble fingers and a needle and thread. He swiftly reattached the button, laughed at my misfortune, and then refused payment.

With my chest now properly restrained, I confidently aced the interview and landed the gig. Later, a woman at Wawa told me, “Mmm, Baby, purple is your color!” Then not one, but 11 classmates commented on my new threads. (Yes, sheer surprise forced a retrospective recount.) And just when I thought my day had reached its pinnacle, the barista at Starbucks (where only the WiFi is free) handed me my Double Chocolaty Chip, simply saying, “This one’s on me.”

Maybe the day’s events were purely coincidental, or perhaps the purple shirt possessed some kind of “Hecho-en-Mexico” magic. (I’d like to think the latter.) But one aspect was apparent: when you make an effort, people notice. Whether it is sprucing up your exterior, taking the time out of a busy day to drop a compliment, or lending a hand to some seemingly insignificant task, rarely does an action go unseen or unfelt. I’d encourage taking that opportunity. It might just make someone’s day.