You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

Mr F is not going to like this post. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that Mr F's apology just a couple of hours ago was based on the fact that he knew that I would take this day to the blog. Oh you are a wise one, Mr F. But you're down for the count, baby.

Sunday was to be the day that Mr F and I completed one of the two tasks I asked him to help with for the entirety of our wedding. Those two things are: (1) purchase wedding rings and (2) rent a tux.

There used to be a third thing, i.e., pick out a honeymoon location, but Mr F has fallen woefully short on that task and I don't want to pay hundreds of extra dollars for a last minute decision on that one, so I removed it from the list, leaving just the two teensy tiny microscopically small things I physically need him to be there for. And truth be told, at this point, if it were a viable option, I would be happy to trade him in for a giant inflatable doll with his measurements that I could lug around town to get these tasks done.

However, the giant inflatable doll is not an option, so I have been talking about getting a tuxedo for a month now, mentally and physically preparing Mr F for this event.

Mr F hates going shopping. I think this only makes him like 98% of the rest of the male population. That being said, we are talking about one hour of one day for one time in his life. Thus far, I have never forced him to do any fashion-related outings on my behalf, which quite frankly puts ME ahead of 98% of women who I know for a fact, DRAG their significant others to dress them up in clothes they like. I do not do this. Mr F does not believe that I am a good or special person for this. But he should.

So we go to the most evil place on Earth. The Mall. And immediately, Mr F looks like a kid about to get a haircut. In fact, there was a little boy aged four actually being pulled toward Supercuts with the same look on his face. Pure horror.

As I stride toward Men's Warehouse, Mr F has strayed out of sight somehow. He is nowhere to be found. I peer into the stores nearby and see a flash of his red flannel shirt. Apparently, Mr F has gone into Brookstone. This is also not surprising. Mr F laments that we will spend $150 on a tuxedo for his wedding day, but thinks that it is understandable to spend $200 on an alarm clock that slowly gets louder to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder. (It's called turning up the volume dial and drinking a cup of coffee. It costs pennies a day. Look into it.)

So I drag Mr F into Men's Warehouse (I tell him - "You're Gonna Like The Way You Look - I Guarantee It!" - he does not find this compelling). Once we are in the store, I ask the clerk where the tuxedos are that you try on to order for a wedding or special event. The very nice gentleman politely informs me that we can't try anything on because they don't keep these items in stock. We just need to order based on swatches. Hmm. Well that is not what I expected. I want Mr F to look the best he's ever looked and somehow I don't think a frickin swatch is really gonna help at all.

Mr F is ecstatic. Now he doesn't have to try anything on.

He looks at the book, holds a swatch up next to his face and says "I like this one. Let's go home."

Well isn't that just hunky dorey. This is not going according to plan at all.

Swatch next to the face is not giving me the visual image I need. I want to see him in a tux. I have been researching peak lapels versus notch lapels, two button versus three button, and bow-tie versus long tie for months. Am I now supposed to just close my eyes and point to the book without seeing him try anything on?

Mr F says yes, that is what I'm supposed to do.

I think not.

I want to make sure Mr F looks good and I want to make sure he doesn't look...well, gaudy or worse yet, cheesy. I have a secret fear that Mr F will look like A Guy Wearing A Rented Tuxedo for his prom. I want James Bond, not James Spader (a la "Steff" in "Pretty in Pink"). There is a fine line between "good formalwear" and "bad formalwear." And I suspect I cannot make a decision on where that line sits from a swatch.

So we get some brochures which we are supposed to select tuxedos from. I am not comfortable with this. Mr F assures me it is because I am a control freak and I need to see everything and have my hands on every detail before it happens.

He is correct.

He also notes that he is not allowed to see what I am wearing to the wedding, so isn't it only fair that the converse be true? While in fact both a fair and astute point, Mr F is overlooking the important point that unlike him, I do not consider wearing olive green Puma workout pants that snap up the side with a red flannel shirt dating back from college (and probably pilfered from a lumberjack's closet) an outfit appropriate for dinner at a nice restaurant. Or even dinner at home. In the dark. Or for anything else other than kindling for a fireplace.

All that aside, yes I am a control freak, but wouldn't you be if you knew you could find yourself promising to love and cherish a solid gold dancer until you die? (My fear with having him wear a champagne colored tie and vest.)

All of which explains why I would like to see Mr F actually put on a gosh darn tux.

So we exit the store and see that there is another formalwear store around the corner. At which point Mr F pouts. And stamps his feet. And crosses his arms. And lies down on the floor and pounds his fists and legs on the ground while hot tears escape from his eyes. OK, that was the three year old boy who was tired of shopping with mommy, but I swear, they looked just about the same to me.

So I drag Mr F into the second store and he frowns at me. He puts a tux on and looks like a high school senior who was stood up by his prom date (fortunately, this is not because of the champagne vest). He's miserable. And making me miserable. I wonder if the pockets of any of these coats contain a flask like the one that my date brought to our prom. I can hear the AC/DC now.

The sales clerk also looks miserable. She looks sympathetically at me and says, "You know, the guys really hate this. They just don't like trying on clothes."

Oh boo hoo. Must be hard to really really hate doing something and to have to suck it up and do it anyway. Imagine hating it and having enough stupid details that you could fill every weekend for a year completing that crap. Sounds like fodder for a blog.

But I know when I'm defeated. So we leave. Mr F thinks I'm crazy and detail obsessed. I think Mr F is annoying and selfish.

We're both right and we're both wrong (and we know this but both prefer sulking to talking, for now anyway), but the truth of the matter is, I still need to see Mr F try on a tux, so he better start mentally preparing himself to go back to the mall.

Until then, I will spend my days creatively trying to figure out how to make tux shopping FUN! So far my list looks like this:

1 - Get Mr F drunk. Blindfold him and tell him we are going to Las Vegas to elope but he needs proper formalwear. Bring him to store with tuxedo options and put them on. Run very fast before Mr F can realize we are not going to Vegas.

I guess I'll keep thinking.