My wife and I had a wedding to attend this weekend, which means absolute panic mode for parents of a toddler. Dressing up has become “I showered this week, I think.” and “Does this shirt have too many visible stains?” I knew the wedding was formal, but I asked – “Did the invite say black tie affair or formal?” My wife said, “I think black tie.” Uh oh.
I have a tuxedo, but it was a gift from a very in shape professional ballet dancer and I had ice cream three times this week. I knew it fit…pre-child. I put it on, piece by piece. Shirt: Holy hell, unless I can squeeze my neck fat down into my nether regions, this top button isn’t getting buttoned. Pants: OH HELL NO – oh wait, there’s fat adjusters on the side. (Slides to max fat capacity, pants fit – there will no dancing, for sure) Cummerbund: What is the purpose of this thing? (Stares at gut) Oh, to cover that bloated disaster. Jacket: Hmmm. I’m OK, as long as I don’t turn around, move my shoulders or try to button it.
We dropped off our daughter and drove to the shindig. I walked in and realized my wife either forgot or doesn’t know the difference between black tie and formal – I was the only one not in the party or wearing white gloves that had a tux on. Now I realized I was overdressed, albeit poorly and a new panic came over me for being the well polished turd in the punch bowl. Great. Next time, I’m just wearing sweat pants and telling everyone I lost all my clothes in a fire or locust attack.