Tuxedo Tips . . .

If EVER the world needed Men's Wearhouse founder and former head George Zimmer and his "I guarantee it", um, guarantee it was Wednesday evening at my local store that lost its way when it lost its leader.

I should clarify - I'm not "manly". I have never killed anything, I can't build anything. I cry - ALL the time. I can tell you, without a drop of irony, my favorite essential oils and I always ask people what the "mid-notes" of their cologne are.

I'm not the least bit "masculine" except when it comes to my clothes. Because make NO mistake the great failure of "man" is not our collective wussification (not a real thing anyway) but it is, instead, the cut of our jeans and the slouch of our appearance. I may be fat, balding, and awkward but I know exactly how to dress my body. And that, dear reader, might be the first problem with me going for a tuxedo fitting.

Wanna hear a story? Sure you do . . .

So I went to have my tuxedo fitting on Wednesday. We had stopped in on Saturday but, between prom season, wedding season, and Commitment Balls the place was an actual, literal mad house so we left and I made the latest appointment available on a weeknight. The mele gave way to utter silence - and maybe the "scrubs" of the staff.

I arrived, on time, and was greeted by a very enthusiastic employee - tape measure and pamphlets in hand - who was unable to find my appointment but they DID have one for Sean Amorg in the system. Yeah. NO reason to presume that person isn't me. But how did the "e" become a "g" when I typed it in? So after that weirdness I got wave two of the perk. This professional was more than happy to help - and by "help" I mean wait until my partner arrived. Partner? Why do I need my PARTNER? If a woman walked into my store and I hinted I would wait until her old man arrived with the money I'd be a jerk. Alas . . .

So upon additional inspection of the computer screen it was determined that my partner (why do they keep saying "partner") was right there in the system from their appointment at David's Bridal. Of COURSE it was my partner's fault that my name was wrong. But then I was told "Don't worry - he (yep, HE) probably just was too excited to spell my name right." Wait, wait, wait . . . this person thinks I'm gay and having a gay marriage in Kansas with someone who went to their fitting at the bridal shop? What is going on here?

So then we cleared up my heterosexuality and moved on to the real pain. My choice in tuxedos was clearly unacceptable. My selected accessories were not right. The colors we chose for the big day seemed strange. My decisions on not having ring bearers or "junior groomsmen" (yes - we are REALLY doing that in the year 2016) was strange. The thought of all the men wearing the same uniform for duty seemed bizarre. This went on for a solid ten minutes. THEN we got into shoes. Let me be very, very clear you can wear ANY color with a universal neutral. ANY color.

Time for the measurements. As I mentioned earlier I am not manly but I know my body and I know the horrifyingly large numbers it puts up. I know my inseam to within a quarter-of-an-inch. I know that my neck is a full inch smaller than the neck in my dress shirts because my torso corpulence is brutal. But despite my strong declarations AND the fact that I was told I HAD to come back in early September for re-measurements I had to let tiny-arms (this employee looked like a t-rex from the shoulder out) take full stock of me AND to correct them at each sloppy, vague attempt to get the "right" numbers. Horrifying.

Next pain point? The party itself. Men, their names, their contact information, their relationships to me and Jesus Christ (that was an actual question - imagine their shock to discover I'm down with G-d way more than J-H-C) and how we could move ahead with getting them taken care of and how they can go to ANY Men's Wearhouse (I swear to you and all that's holy that I'm going to encourage them all to go to Tulsa to avoid this experience) in America to get "served" (that was the word).

So about 40 minutes (felt like eight hours) I was finally free to go. I was tired. I was grumpy. I was stabby. I was never less excited to be alive and in a society that wears clothes. The best part? I get to go back three more times - at least. Ugh.