The Dress, part 2

[continued from Monday 4.3.06]

One day when you are all dead, I plan to release my lifetime study on the female psyche as recited through the male perspective. Itll win me a Nobel Prize and I will be able to pinpoint my genius as having been hatched sometime shortly after college.

Im going to die a lonely, lonely bachelor but Ill have my opinions to spoon with at night.

This is what goes through my mind sometime after buying Kellys dress and in-between buying shoes and a proper bra (eesh, dont get me started). I must now confess my unwillingness to dole out advice on the footwear department. I dont understand womens shoes. They confuse me. Frankly, they make me question reality. Remember the Reebok Pumps? Now those were shoes. They had air pockets and a complicated adjustable cushioning system that worked around each specific foot. Do you hear what Im saying? These shoes had an air system. For a sophisticated system of air pockets and wires, I can understand paying eighty bucks on shoes. Instead, Kelly and I are standing in the ladies department of Nordys (thats what I overheard a mall debutante call Nordstroms) looking at similarly priced shoes utilizing only a fraction of the materials of the oldskool Reeboks. Every shoe I looked at were variations on roughly the same theme: three straps of leather conveniently architectured to hold the foot to a skinny piece of molded cardboard all miraculously balanced atop a matchstick-sized heel.
So... let us recap.

1 matchstick
3 leather pieces stitched together
1 cardboard sole.


Eighty bucks.


Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Now ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you; what happens at every wedding and every regal event youve ever been to? Halfway through the party, the DJ plays YMCA, the girls all kick off their shoes and make like its a damned sock hop for the rest of the night.
Amazing.
I will never understand how you ladies let these shoes cut into your heels, dig into your toes, and rip up your ankles only so you can kick them off immediately upon arrival - leaving them shamed and disgraced off to the side - only to go out a month or two later and buy a similar pair for some other dance-a-thon.
If men are a bunch of boneheads, where does this whole high heel situation fall?

I am not attacking women; I am simply declaring my inability to comprehend. I ask only that you enlighten me. But if no one can successfully illuminate this conundrum, allow me to offer up some advice:
Ladies, you look great in heels.
Great.
No man will deny this, but we think you are wasting your money. Wear sneakers, get us drunk quickly, and dance with us no one will notice.
Save your money.

And while Im complaining about female-stuff-that-makes-no-sense-to-me, let me bring up my problem with purses. You women own like, ten, twenty, thirty purses that match your dress,
match your shoes,
match your nails,
match your eyes,
your cell phones,
your itty-bitty-poodles,

You have a million purses for a million possible situations, but somehow - miraculously - you make the nearest guy carry everything. How does this work? Explain it to me. Cause guys get the reputation for doing stupid things that make no sense all the time and I just cannot understand why girls buy purse after purse after purse and yet make me carry everything. By the end of the night, I had Kellys necklace in one pocket (which she bought five hours previously), I had Lindsays hair ties in the other pocket, plus all my stuff. And when I asked why theyre handing this stuff to me, all the girls look at me like I was blowing bubbles with my own saliva and replied simply;
"This dress doesnt have pockets."
Like, duh.

Isnt that what a purse is? Isnt a purse just a huge pocket!? Why even bother with a purse, then!? Cmon girls, you have to admit, this whole purse fiasco is silly. Fess up; centuries ago you ladies didnt think the whole purse thing through, and now its too late to admit your folly. Am I right?
I'm right, aren't I?
I feel for you I do.

At this point, I can just imagine my dad distancing himself from me and my opinions. Hes a smart man and always has been. Me, I enjoy sticking my entire foot into my mouth. I dont just stick my foot into my mouth though, I tend to keep it there and gnaw until I hit bone.


* * *


With the dress and shoes taken care of, it was (I guess) time for accessories.
Kelly and I went into a store called New York & Company. Their whole big advertising angle is that people all over the country want to be a part of the most hustling bustling, hippest city in the world (New York, in case youre having trouble paying attention). Their angle is that if you shop at New York & Company, you too can be as chic as anyone on Broadway.
Excuse me?
If I wanted to be a part of New York Id buy a plane ticket not a t-shirt. I'm from Chicago and anyone from Chicago knows that we want nothing less than to be like "Yawkers". Weve spent 300 years trying to get as far from New Yorks shadow as possible shame on New York & Company for trying to set us back. What are the odds that people from New York actually shop at New York & Company anyway? I imagine real cosmopolitan girls giggle furiously as they pass by a New York & Company on their way to Lord & Taylor and Saks Fifth Avenue.

That being said, Katie did pick up a way cool belt and the same stunning necklace that ended up in my suit pocket for most of the night.


But this day was all about observation. I knew I would understand little and hoped to learn lots. When a guy shops for clothing, its a momentary annoyance something one does at halftime.
Anything longer and it can wait,
34 waist - 36 inseam.
I never even need to try the pants on.

A girl on the other hand, uh-uh. We were in the mall for three hours, T-H-R-E-E hours and bought one outfit.
ONE.
Three hours one outfit.
Im still trying to make that math work in my head. On the way home, Kelly calls Lindsay to brag about how swiftly shed shopped for her outfit.
Swiftly? Are you serious?!*
But the amazement that befell my afternoon was nothing like what was to follow for the rest of the evening. Only after Kelly and I were returning from the mall was I invited to Lindsay's shindig myself, needless to say I was far from prepared. I needed a haircut. I needed a suit. I needed a set of social graces and I needed to find a cute pair of shoes for the party.
Why should only the girls get to look their best?


Had I not answered the phone that morning Kelly would have gone to the mall alone (if at all). If Kelly went to the mall alone, I wouldnt have gotten brow-beaten by the overprotective mothers in the Marshall Fields dress department, nor would I have loped alongside an eighty-year-old lingerie saleswoman assisting Kelly in finding that perfect bra. And if I hadnt done all that, I wouldnt be sitting in Lindsay's house watching her, Kelly, and several of Lindsay's sisters switching, rearranging, matching, preparing, applying, reapplying (and in Lindsays case giving up on applying) their nail polish. It was Lindsay's mother's retirement party being held later in the night that brought the current activities to a head. It was madness at least compared to what I am used to in my own home. For all I know any house filled with women carries with it an exceptional amount of chaos. For me however, girls switching from outfit to outfit, wet hair wrapped in towels, makeup being plunked around like tiddlywinks and every once in a while having my opinion being called upon, was a horse of quite another color.

Lindsay had two outfits in contention to be worn at the party. She modeled them both and asked my opinion. I told her honestly that I preferred Dress A, knowing full well that she would then automatically choose Dress B. She hesitated on a decision, but several hours later, you can bet that she wore Dress B.
Again, Im just sayin.


Most of my time at Lindsay's house was spent in their den watching the Louisville-Cincinnati game, ever so happy to have something to train my eyes on. And despite removing myself as far from the action as possible, everyone was still in and out, shouting, yelling, frantic, excited giddy, nervous, and unsure (this is Lindsay's house, this is how it goes).

"Ma, take a look at this shirt with these pants!"
Then somewhere on the first floor another voice can be heard, "Linds', lemme see the dress!"
"I was just in that dress, you missed it! Megs, wheres the nail polish you were using?"
"It's in Jamie's room, I think. I dunno."
"Lindsay, are you wearing the dress 'er no?"
"I don't know ma, jeez! I think Jamie is wearing it!

Megan. Jamie. Lindsay's two sisters. Also attending tonight's party. Suddenly, Kelly walks into the room, wearing the dress that I helped her pick out. A lump forms in my throat, it looks fine to me, but what do I know?
I'm a guy. As it stands I am worried that my novice opinion has swayed her to buy the damned thing in the first place and that sometime later in the night she's going to realize that she hates the dress and subsequently hates me for making her wear it. I don't know that she feels this way, but I worry.
The true test will be the other girls in the household. Most girls will lie and tell a girlfriend how wonderful they look no matter what. But with Lindsay's family, my guess is, theyll be more honest with Kelly than most. And God help me if they don't like her dress, because if word gets around that I helped pick this damn out and I'd be trapped like a pig on a spit.
Lindsay joins Kelly in front of the television showing the Cincinatti/ Louisville game.

"Kelly! It's a cute dress!"
"Yeah?"
"Kells it's cute. It's totally cute. No seriously, that looks cute. Seriously."
"Are you sure?"
"No seriously, its cute."
At this point Lindsay turns to me, laughing. She senses my acute desperation not to offend anyone but pushes me anyway and says,
"Ace, doesn't Kelly look cute?"
I hesitate.
I open my mouth slowly.
I want no part of this.
I look for sanctuary on the television screen.
I want Louisville to win.
I want Cincinnati to stop getting so many foul calls.
I want Rick Patino to stop yelling.
I want to go home and cry.

God help me. The answer is "yes." Yes, the dress looks totally cute. Completely cute.
Totally, fucking completely cute.
But what if I say "yes" and they keep asking my opinions on things? Dear Lord, what do I do then?


To my surprise neither Lindsay nor Kelly wait for my answer. They've both turned away and headed somewhere down the hallway. I am once again alone with college basketball and thankful as Hell.
Pangs of fury rise in my belly. Why didn't they want my opinion? What the heck is wrong with my opinion? The gall on these girls. I totally had an opinion, and they didn't even care.


Eventually, Kelly and I leave Lindsay's house. I have officially accepted the invitation to attend this shindig myself; a prospect that is both exciting and horrifying. It is Saturday. I look my worst on Saturdays. I need a haircut bad. I'm dirty, I've gotta do laundry, etc.


So now, like an episode of Mission: Impossible I've got two hours to go from zero to hero.
My first worry is my hair. I've got ragamuffin hair, messy; windblown but not windblown in the cute way that you see in the Polo ads, windblown like a homeless person. I'm desperate and ill-prepared. I'd get a trim but it is Saturday evening and no barber is still open. No, on this night, I was gonna need hair gel and lots of it. But what I was going to do with that hair gel was a Sphinxian riddle if ever there was one. I don't use hair gel, I had to no idea what I wanted to do once the gel was in my hair. I knew what I didn't want. I didn't want to gel my hair up and comb it back like a cast member from The Sopranos. I was overmatched and in need of an opinionated assistant. Being too proud to call either of my parents into action, there was only one other option:


Emily, my fourteen-year-old sister.
She had to help me and she had to bring fashion magazines to assist in the process. Upon arriving at my place, my sister immediately harasses me like a terrier to a chicken wing.

"So what does the dress look like?" She asks, "How long is it? What is the cut like? Is it pretty? Is it sleeveless? Backless? Colorless? Priceless?"

She goes on like this for at least twenty minutes, never pausing long enough for me to answer. I make a sandwich and clip my fingernails in the time it takes Emily to spit out all the minor details about Kelly's dress that she wants to know. I tell her that it was black, had ruffles around the neck and went past the knees. To a guy this is more than enough description. To a girl I have yet to begin describing it. What can I say ladies? If you want full details, wait till the pictures develop!


"Well what do you want it to look like?"

This was her first question to me and it was exactly what I needed. I needed to focus directly on the problem and I needed someone who would force me to combat that problem head-on. I was enjoying her assistance so far.
I think my mumbled reply was something like, "I dunno. What do hot guys look like these days?"
I remembered seeing a picture of Ben Affleck recently and thinking his hair looked pretty good (and simple).
So there we were, on the hard wooden floor of my bedroom flipping through my sister's issues of Seventeen Magazine, YM Magazine, Cosmo Girl Magazine and J-14 Magazine looking for a picture of Ben Affleck and all I could think of were those scowling mothers in the dress department of Marshall Fields silently condemning my proximity to their daughters. What would they say if they saw me flipping through SmashHits Magazine past pictures of Hillary Duff and the Olson Twins?! Can you imagine if any of my friends saw this?
I'd be done for.
I'd never hear the end of it.
I'd never be able to make fun of anybody ever again because this would always be thrown back into my face. It's amazing. If anyone had told me that over my weekend I'd find myself frantically flipping through a copy of Tiger Beat desperate to find a picture of B.Fleck with his "good hair", I'd have shot the person that told it to me and then shot myself next for fear of it coming true!

After failing to find a decent picture of Ben, I thought, "Fuckit. Let's run with what weve got." So I hole my sister and myself in the bathroom and have her help me style my hair (thats what people in-the-know call combing hair with gunk in it. They call it "styling"). So we're styling, combing, rearranging and fixing and all the while I'm wondering how I got myself into this mess. I just went to go help a friend pick out a damn dress and here I am having my sister "style" my hair! I come out of the bathroom looking like a funhouse mirror version of Cary Grant**
I sucked in a deep breath of air while staring at my reflection in the mirror, trying not to dwell on this sad state of affairs any further. My reflection told me that I was as ready as I was ever going to be. I shrugged it off by thinking, "who cares anyway? I'm not bringing a date; I've got no one to answer to. Who am I trying to impress?"


Then it hits me:


"Shit! Im not bringing a date! I don't have anyone to answer to! Sweet Lord, I'm trying to impress everyone! Isn't that right? Oh God, what have I done?!"


And thus ends a longstanding male myth; that guys never fret over formal events. Oh, we may hide it well. We may even deny outright that we care, but we suffer just as much mental strain as you girls do.
Believe it.
I'm letting out team secrets here.


Consider them a gift.

[to be concluded on Saturday 4.08.06.]

=======================

* Later in the evening I double-checked with my mom about the time the average formal party outfit takes to buy; apparently 3 hours to buy one outfit is not only industry standard, but record setting as well! Now see, that's fascinating. That is why I came on this trip in the first place. In two hours, I could have bought a tux, painted the roof of my house, chosen a mail-order bride, and gambled away my entire life savings! Amazing.

** Meaning no sex-appeal, no charm and an amplified bi-sexual vibe.