Whale tails left and right. Cleavage front and center. Boxer-briefs everywhere I look. These are just three reasons why Cornell should adopt a uniform policy. Or, at the very least, a dress code.

My friend Zoë is always impeccably dressed. Each morning, it is as if she has a stylist put together the most weather-appropriate, perfectly coordinated ensemble, from her carefully selected jewelry right down to her choice of footwear. Often, clad in rain-soaked ballet flats, I can only stare with jealousy at Zoë’s cozy wellies. On days when my hair looks like the before-picture on What Not to Wear, Zoë’s is inevitably pulled back with an flawlessly coordinated headband.

This difference, of course, is due to the fact that I roll out of bed every morning and throw on whatever I find first, always leading to some version of a jeans/tee shirt/cardigan combination. I appreciate fashion, and certainly contribute my fair share to the annual revenues of the 3 B’s (Bergdorf, Barneys, Bloomie’s). But on a Monday morning when I’m rushing to make it to my 10:10 Bengali class, I’m lucky if I remember to brush my hair, never mind put together a fashionable outfit.

My morning habits, if you’d like to call them that, stem from my high school years. As a student at an all-girls Catholic school, I wore a mandatory uniform each day. Just like what many girls will don next week as a Halloween costume, we wore pleated, plaid kilts, white polo shirts, monogrammed navy sweaters and knee socks. Unlike the uniforms on older seasons of Gossip Girl, our self-expression was left to our choice of (plain, flat heeled) shoes, limited amounts of jewelry (no facial piercings!) and the color hair ribbon we wore each day (if one was the ribbon-wearing type).

Sure, our expression via fashion was limited, even stifled. But getting dressed in the morning took about five seconds — and I built up a pretty killer collection of hair ribbons.

For those of us not as fashionably inclined as Zoë, dressing in the morning can be a tedious task. No wonder thongs, boobs and butts are exposed left and right. That is why — hair ribbons aside — a uniform policy or dress code would make a brilliant addition to Cornell.

For Cornell students, clothes play a huge role in our perception of each other. Clothes, for better or — mostly — for worse, are an indication of our attitude, our social status and of our (or our parents’) economic well being. Clothes can signal anything from our membership in a club or group, to the fact that we can afford to buy $200 jeans.

While some people may argue that these signals are significant, I would argue that they are irrelevant. When we’re in class, does it really matter what we’re wearing? In fact, very often our clothing can communicate negative things.

Take the girl trying to crawl into the center of your row in Wines. And the fact that her skin-tight dress just keeps riding further up, that her tights are not as opaque as she thinks and that her bright pink thong and cellulite-ridden thighs are just inches from your face. Or the girl who sits down with a giant lacey whale tail in the back, or the one who leans over to get you a lot closer to the Grand Canyon than you thought you ever would in Geology 101. Seriously, these girls look like they’re training for a career at Kuma’s (or, for the lucky ones, at Scores), rather than, presumably, to become real professionals.

And this isn’t just a female problem — what about the guy who walks around with the waist of his paints closer to his ankles than his navel? All of these people can be down right disgusting, never mind distracting when I’m trying to learn about DCF valuation techniques.

Beyond the assault on my eyes that clothing — or lack thereof — can cause, it also serves to communicate social signals that are inappropriate (and again, distracting) in a classroom. Tee shirts with political messages may serve as a conversation starter, but I frankly don’t care who you voted for in ’08, even if it’s written across your chest. The neon hue of a hipster’s hoodie can cast a glare that makes it impossible to read the notes on a whiteboard. And the labels plastered across the rear pockets on “designer” jeans just gives economically advantaged students one more way to differentiate themselves from others, or to cast disdain on those who deign to purchase jeans that have price tags with fewer than three digits.

Uniforms, or at least a dress code that would eliminate text on tee shirts and the inappropriate baring of skin, would put every student on an even playing field. We wouldn’t ever again have to see some girl’s tramp stamp or butt cheeks due to her slutty clothing choices. A uniform requiring flat-heeled shoes would help to reduce traffic on our sidewalks, which are too often held up by silly girls tottering along in their ridiculous shoes. Uniforms would make everyone’s morning routine much swifter. And we would be able to evaluate each other based on our intellect and what we say with our mouths, rather than what’s written on our tee shirt or across our ass.

Of course, I will never live to see my dream of a Cornell student body clad entirely in khaki slacks and white oxford shirts. A university is a bastion of intellectual freedom, and one’s clothing choices are certainly part of that freedom (how many professors wear suits and ties to work each day?). And besides, lucky for me, those who somehow graduate from Cornell without learning how to dress themselves properly certainly won’t last long in an office setting. So for now, you can continue to wear nauseatingly low v-neck shirts, Greek letters plastered on every imaginable item of clothing and silly high heels in the middle of a blizzard. But seriously, try to at least cover yourself. The last two things I want to see when I’m enjoying my Statler salad are your boobs. Really.

Leigha Kemmett, a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences, is the former editor of Red Letter Daze. She may be reached at lkemmett@cornellsun.com. Starboard Tact appears alternate Thursdays this semester.