I’m learning lots of things with this whole getting married ordeal. My forthcoming nuptials are less than three months away and so far I’ve learned the difference between a maid of honor and a matron of honor, I’ve learned what the color blush looks like, and that it does not go with a brown suit.
I’ve also discovered that a good pots and pans set costs more than a months worth of rent and that those plates are not worth buying because they chip easily. My fiancé has taught me that the color of a kitchen aid is of such vast importance the universe itself pales in comparison, for it will forever determine the colors and items with which we stock in our kitchen for years to come! I’ve learned that a duvet is not a blanket, but a blanket cover.
I’ve also been learning about thread counts in sheets and why you want your bathroom towels to match your curtain shower. I’ve also learned that my scanning of random items in Target and Bed, Bath, and Beyond is not nearly as funny to my fiancé as it is to me. Who wouldn’t want cocoa butter lotion and a copy of Cada Dia Es Viernes by that heretic from Houston? Apparently I am not allowed to register for the third season of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the Mos Def album, or the postmodern looking lamp. I am told repeatedly that people will buy the things I scan.
I’ve also learned the exorbitant price tag Weddings carry with them. Shoot man, we’re having our wedding in a backyard and it still going to cost some pretty hefty g’s.
Today I went suit shopping at the City Creek Center. I didn’t want to go there, but it was the only place. After two hours of looking in stores a piece of my soul fell off in the Macy’s dressing room. Everyone in Nordstrom’s, Macy’s, H and M, and wherever else I went but have since tried to block out of my memory, knew I didn’t belong there. One lady in Nordstrom’s asked me if I was lost. Another gentlemen politely asked me what I was doing here and if I needed help.
After throwing up over a set of pants in Nordstrom’s once I saw how much they cost, I went to Macy’s. There was a very nice older man with glasses named Craig who decided he would take pity on my poor, dirty, anarchist soul and teach me how to dress. I learned so much! I learned what my size was in a suit jacket and that they measure it by your chest (mine was pretty big, needless to say), he also explained to me that fancy shirts are measured by your neck size and do not come in small, medium, and large. He told me the right height at which your slacks should rest above your shoes and how much of your shirtsleeve should be sticking out of your jacket.
At one point I was trying on a pair of dress shoes and he gave me a shoehorn. I didn’t know what it was, but it was red and long and looked like some sort of stick the Aztecs would have used to play some ancient form of baseball with. At first I just stood there, holding it like a scepter, or a very long and skinny, plastic baby. I stared up at him. I asked him If I should blow into it like we did with the rams horn at church, but he explained to me that it was not the sort of horn that made noise, nor was it ever at one time attached to the head of a shoe like a rhino’s horn. Shoes do not technically even have heads.
“I really don’t know what to do with this,” I said. He showed me how you use it to help your heel slid easily into your dress shoe.
“Of course!” I said. “I knew what it did, it’s just been awhile. I was testing you. I’ve been living in a teepee in Wyoming you see, I was never raised by humans, my mom was a wolf who raised me in a cave next to the Yukon River.
In the dressing room I took off my shirt and in the mirror my potbelly stuck out like a hairy pregnant woman’s photo shoot. The bright lights made my skin feel pale, translucent. I took off the rest of my clothes and set them down. All my clothes looked like dirty dishtowels compared to the fancy clothes I began to try on. My hair was disheveled and my beard was fraying into several different directions. After I tried the suit on, I realized that no amount of money spent on a suit was going to make my lumpy hair and pubic beard any more attractive. If anything, put a suit on me and I look more homeless than I did with tattered jeans and hand-me-down t-shirts.
Eventually I found a suit and Craig did his best to lie and tell me I looked good in it. He told me how much it was going to cost and I had to smoke several cigarettes right there in Macy’s before I could take my debit card out. Truthfully, I got a good deal and my suit was still on the way cheaper end, but I don’t like spending more than a hundred dollars in a store unless I can sleep in it too.
My balls were chaffing because it was hot and I was wearing cheap underwear. I looked at the David Beckham underwear collection and thought maybe I’d give it a shot. I asked a lady how many came in the box for fifteen dollars.
“How many? She asked inquisitively. There’s only one per box.
Figures. Freaking David Beckham.