Having a fit
A groomsman checks his vanity at the door
A cousin of mine got married in South Jersey last weekend and invited me to be one of his groomsmen. It's one of those offers you don't refuse. There was a catch, though. I'd have to rent a tuxedo. Few men find this prospect thrilling. Their apprehension seems to fall into two camps: the dudes who hate formal wear and the ones who hate to rent it.
As the owner of a tuxedo, I'm in the latter camp, but what I own is a far cry from what I'd be renting -- pants with an adjustable waist and old hemlines. My cousin and his fiancée wanted a coordinated wedding party, meaning that if the bridesmaids' dresses were, say, crimson, so then would some element of the groomsmen's suits. Needless to say, she did not want crimson. She wanted something more aquatic.
For the tuxedo rental, my cousin went with After Hours Formal Wear, the well-run, ever-expanding chain that does a lot of prom business. Most of my high-school classmates rented there. I skipped the prom and missed the After Hours experience. My cousin was helping me atone.
When I showed up for my fitting at one of the downtown Philadelphia locations, the first suit I saw was a sleek number near the register. It was a Calvin Klein, and I hoped it had my name on it. Not so much.
Instead, I was being fitted for the outfit I was born not to wear, what I like to think of as the NFL special. You've seen it. It's what aspiring rookies wear on draft day, what ESPY Award winners have on when they make their way to the stage: boxy blazer with about six buttons, flashy tie, a vest that matches something. An injured Michael Irvin spent many a game day in such a suit, and he and Shannon Sharpe still don them as football commentators. (Many NBA players prefer them, too.)
The version my cousin chose, with his fiancée's help, had only four buttons (covered with fabric), and it was gray, not maroon or purple. But it came with a sea-foam necktie, matching vest (the label said Nicole Miller), and dull gray shoes that threatened to make the wearer look like an orthopedic pimp.
In my cousin's defense, he is very tall and built like a man used to sacking quarterbacks. I am half his size, and the jacket came close to the middle of my thighs. Had I been a rapper, they would have called me Lil' Pimp. I wanted David Beckham sitting on the Galaxy's bench or Tiki Barber on the "Today" show -- not boxy and buttony, but crisp and smooth.
My cousin's was about the 40th wedding I've been to in 10 years, and I've come to take a great deal of pleasure in the experience of deciding what to wear. Obviously, this is a matter of plain old vanity. Not being able to exercise it caused some anxiety: How can I do any flirting wearing a Volvo? The night before the ceremony I dreamed that the rental suit caught me picking out something else to wear and attacked me.
My problem wasn't with the rented tux. It was that the tux I rented wasn't me. It was, however, very much my cousin -- and handsomely so. It expressed the vision he and his fiancée had of their very special day. He was gracious enough to include me, and, I, in turn, should have been gracious about being included. And I was. But -- but -- my vanity wouldn't leave me alone. It was hard to stand there watching him tearfully recite his vows to his beautiful bride on this beautiful day, without thinking, "What are you crying about? Your tie and vest are white!"
During the reception, after I removed the tie and vest and gave my jacket to my chilly niece, I thought about what several women have confessed to me about their bridesmaids dresses, including my sister who walked with me down the aisle last weekend. They said the gown always looks better on the other maids, and that groomsmen have it better.
"At least your cousin didn't have to lie to you and tell you that you'd always be able to wear your suit," a friend told me. "No bridesmaid has ever reworn her dress -- except maybe as a Halloween costume." 