Wedding Pips

Fans of the blog (yeah, I'm referring to all three of you) know how skittish I am about weddings. In the past, you've likely read this or this. If you haven't, you should do so and return when you're better prepared.

The most overlooked reason weddings leave a gassy feeling in my tummy is that it forces the bride and groom to commit to social hierarchies that are uncomfortable to admit.

When we were all younger, way younger, like when mustaches were more manly than ironic, we used to use our personal friendship rankings as a power play. "If you trade me those Dunkaroos for this apple, I'll be your best friend." We've all been a part of the if-you-do-_____-I'll-be-your-best-friend trade-off before. It takes balls to pull this off and little kids have balls, mostly because they haven't got brains.

Clearly they haven't got any brains because the deals went through. They happened. I didn't have Dunkaroos until I was 15 because I kept trading them away to people so they'd become my friends. They were already sitting next to me in school and at lunch and probably already liked me before the transaction, but what did I know?

If I was interested in making my own tee shirts, I'd make one that said "I was a stupider child than you were." I'm not into making my own tee shirts though, so the point is moot.

Using your friendship to manipulate certain situations ran rampant throughout my childhood. Kids my age wrote out invitations according to who was most liked. The cool kids were established by the sheer number of other kids that hung around them. If you sucked at dodgeball, but your friend was a captain, you'd always be picked third.*

* You couldn't be picked first or second because the team had to compete and the captain would get ridiculed for choosing some lame dodgeballer first. The fix would totally be in, the captain's status would plunge and both he and you would be screwed.

It should also be noted that this rule only applies to boys. Girls had no interest in competing or really, being good at anything. Girls only picked their friends and chatted while holding onto the dodgeballs. Thinking back, girls were a total waste until they hit puberty. They're fine now, but I have no regrets wanting nothing to do with them when I was eight.

When I was little, I secretly ranked my friends. I did. I had to. I was always scared I was going to actually be thrown in the hypothetical situations people dream up (drowning boat with time enough only to save one, a dive bombing airplane with only one other parachute, an invitation to a supermodel orgy for you and only one guest**). It seemed imperative that if any of these situations were to arise, that I should not waste time rashly deciding things I should have settled in my head long ago.

** That last hypothetical came a little later in life.

So, for the bulk of my life, at any given moment, I knew who my best friend on Earth was. I also knew the silver medal winner, the bronze and the guys who I didn't really care for, but whose moms were hot.

For most people, this way of thinking shifts and locks onto other things, leaving your friendships in a shapeless glob of history, geography and circumstance. This isn't to say that all friends are equal. Far from it. But the relationships become more organic and comfortable. Eventually, most of us stop associating with people whose friendship can be purchased for the price of a pack of Dunkaroos.

And right about this time is when most people get engaged.

Weddings ask us, once again, to organize where everyone stands in our individual lives. Who's my best man? Which five of my friends and relatives deserve to purchase heinous taffeta bridesmaids dresses? Who's a friend, but still owes me $100 bucks and therefore will be relegated to usher?

Weddings make everyone's social standing frighteningly clear.

And God help you if you don't have a) one (1) sibling or b) someone who saved your life in one way or another.

If my sister Emily was my brother it would be so much easier.*** She'd automatically be my best man. Why? Because we share the same blood. It's not a question of "like" it's a question of family and of "right-ness."

*** For me, not for my sister. If Emily was a boy, she'd take a lot of shit for looking and acting like such a wuss.

It's the same idea if a friend of mine pulled me from a burning wreck, lifted my near-drowned body from the bottom of a pool or spent six years as my AA sponsor. "Hey fellas, your feelings can't be hurt, George here saved my life. I literally couldn't have gotten married without him. I owed him one. I mean, c'mon, his best man speech is practiclaly already written!"

Those two options make everything easy. But I have neither option. One day - I don't know when - I'm going to have to not only choose who will be my Gladys Knight, but also the Pips. I'll also have to show everyone whom I don't like enough to be either Gldys or the Pips clear-cut evidence of this. I'm not jazzed about this process.

The funny thing is, the decision itself isn't hard. I know who it'll be. Actually, I've got both Gladys and all the Pips chosen in my head. The hard part will be revealing to the Pips that they're not Gladys Knight and revealing to the audience that they won't be one of the Pips.

I believe that most people would honestly rather not be a main part of the wedding, but I bet they'd like to be asked. I'd be happy to ask if I somehow knew they would decline. But I don't know that and I'd hate to have the fat guy I bunked with for four years of basketball camp inexplicably become my best man.

The weird thing is, weddings are supposed to be a joyous occasion and yet, to some degree someone's feelings almost certainly have to get hurt at least a little. Someone is going to think they play a bigger part in my life than they do. In fact, it's possible some people don't realize how important they actually are.

Man, I hate weddings.

The Dress, part 3

[...continued from Thursday April 06, 2006 ]


I arrived at the party with both Kelly and Lindsay, which either means I arrived at the party stag or with two girls..
...I think you know how I chose to perceive it.

It was a swank little yacht club out in Wilmette, two levels boating pictures everywhere, a piano, ice covered lagoon, a bar, tables with bowls of grapes and strawberries and so-on you get the picture.
Its nice.
We arrived through the back entrance (the kitchen), which was cool in a Goodfellas kinda way. Almost immediately upon arrival, Lindsay's mom sends both Kelly and myself outside to direct the incoming party traffic. This may sound like a bum deal for a party guest, but not for me. Sure, it was chilly outside but I didn't really know too many people inside and I didn't want to stand around like a hump with too much grease in his hair.*
At least directing traffic gave me momentary direction.
So there we were, wondering why in the hell we were standing outside when no car was stopping long enough for either of us to direct them.

Eventually, Lindsay demanded that Kelly and I come inside and stop this nonsense of trafficking the area. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. Not only did I look awkward with my coiffure and dress shoes, but now the wind had chapped my lips raw. By the end of the night, I looked like a child who had just finished a glass of cherry Kool-Aid. The bright pink ring around my mouth not only caused several people to ask if I was wearing lipstick but then, even after I answered that I was not wearing lipstick, nevertheless caused me the unfortunate side-effect of feeling quite effeminate, or at best hideous.

Fantastic.

This dress-shopping thing has really, really blown up in my face.

Don't get me wrong; I was having a ball. Early in the evening the DJ played Springsteen's Hungry Heart and followed later in the night with Pink Cadillac. It was during this song that I realized whatever cool points I had accumulated over the first half of the party (not many I'm sure) would soon evaporate and I'd be right back in the red.
I was right.
Not in a long time had I seen so many people give themselves over to joy and fun so effortlessly. Everyone, young and old (especially old), seemed to want to party and no one cared how silly they looked doing it. Everyone danced, many of the ladies, I would like to point out, danced shoeless.
See? I told you.
Eighty bucks. Wasted.
While picking up after the party, I ended up having to match fifteen pairs of shoes together! At one point I had six or seven heels in my possession and all I could think was, if I gather these up and sell them, I've just made, like $450!

It'd serve you girls right.

But if bad karma hits women, it must hit men too, because something odd happened to me out on the dance floor. In the privacy of my bedroom I enjoy dancing. I dance at work too. I dance to almost everything I do. My bosses makes fun of me for dancing everywhere. And up to this point I assumed I could dance pretty well. But here there I was in the middle of the dance floor making my body move in ways that I never intended and wouldn't wish on even my bitterest enemies and all I can think is, what the hell happened to my moves? In my room with the door closed I'm a hairy version of Shakira.
A taller Timberlake.
A pale Usher.
Now, all of a sudden, I'm on the dance floor like a wet ferret! I didn't know what the hell I was doing and it really threw me off.

In between fits of fanciful dancing, Kelly and I relieved Lindsay's sister Jamie and her boyfriend from bartending duties. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am the last person that should be behind a bar. I don't drink, or at least not much compared to many of my friends and therefore I know nothing of mixing drinks or pouring them for other people.
I'm not kidding.
A guy came up to me early into my bartending venture, and asked if he could have a G&T ("gin and tonic", I quickly learned). I looked this man directly in the eyes and asked him what was in a gin and tonic. Can you believe that you know someone that damned dumb?!

God, I still can't believe I asked that guy what was in a gin and tonic.

But the worst part was when he blinked at me for a second, realized I wasn't joking and then slowly pointed...
...first to the gin...
...then to the tonic water.
Ugh.
I felt two inches tall. From that point on I pretty much let Kelly handle the liquor while I refilled water glasses, sodas and ran to get more ice. Eventually I pulled myself together and we developed a rhythm. We rocked the teamwork angle and danced up a storm behind the bar. Had we set out a tip jar I'm sure we would've been up five hunny (a hip way of saying five hundred dollars) by the end of the night.
I was like Tom Cruise in Cocktail with less bottle flipping and absolutely no knowledge about alcoholic beverages.

All my running into and out of the kitchen refilling ice buckets and fetching clean cocktail glasses did allow me to make friends with one of the dedicated ladies working for the kitchen staff. Her name was Gina and she had a daughter. I remarked to her that she and the entire kitchen staff were doing a wonderful job and she thanked me. I also explained to her that my hair didn't usually look so bad, to which she replied that it looked perfectly fine. I thanked her for her charitable opinion and grabbed three more wine glasses. It was a special give-and-take between someone who probably didn't belong at this party and another whose job it was to remain invisible at it.
I felt that I didn't belong; not uncomfortable per say, just out of place because this whole event seemed like a big deal. There were friends and family that, I didn't get the impression, saw each other very often and that I was fairly certain I would never see again. By the end of the night, I felt constantly desperate to withdraw myself from the picture so that the tears of having to say goodbye could be dealt with in private, amongst people who earned the right to shed them. I had fun, but I was much more comfortable directing traffic, organizing stray pairs of high heels, talking with the kitchen staff and tending bar. I was made to feel very welcome by Lindsay's family, but I nevertheless wondered if I shouldn't have come at all.

* * *

Being at that party and then reliving it again here, I've finally figured out what made me feel both extremely happy and simultaneously very out-of-place. The last time I was surrounded by such love and camaraderie was back in my old days as a kid with my own family. Not for a very long time have I been a part of something this palpable with affection and warmth. More than once I caught myself staring out of a wide window overlooking a frozen lagoon. I wondered: do people notice the warmth of family when they are a part of it or only when they are not? The warmth of the hootenanny rubbed off on me so completely that I felt more like a part of the party than I was. I was an outsider and immediately felt guilty because of it, as if I had sneaked into the clubhouse of a gang that hadn't accepted me. It was a wonderful evening, but one that transcended my simple expectations. What happened to me was bigger than necklines and neckties, bigger than purses and shoes and the differences between men and women.

I wanted a piece of the party's warmth to belong to me.

As the night drew to a close, Kelly and I hung around to help clean up the yacht club long after most everyone else left. It was a relatively painless cleanup and one that garnered me more thanks and apologies than I have ever been lavished with before. Everyone associated with Lindsay's family felt bad for making me clean up. Had they only known how little I minded, they'd probably have demanded that I do more!

On the way home, I was instructed to drive. Lindsay slowly slipped into a funk at having not only to get up at the crack of dawn for her flight back to Boston, but for the fear that she could very well be doing so in less-than-perfect health. Meanwhile Kelly thought it a tad safer if I drove instead of her. Ironically enough, it was I, the sober one, chosen to drive that snapped back Kelly's driver side mirror after hitting a few low-slung tree branches. This, I thought, was a bad omen. Luckily the mirror was a breakaway and no damage was done.
On the trip home I did learn that women, at their bachelorette parties, want facials and pedicures. Essentially, they want to get a jump-start on their wedding day. Men however, want sports and booze and maybe even a stripper: a man's way of subsequently halting the impending doomsday as long as possible. I also stuck my foot in my mouth while discussing why short guys are not attractive to women. It was an interesting conversation that kept all of us from falling asleep.
Unfortunately, it is not appropriate for this particular story and you'll just hafta use your imaginations.

I bid adieu to Kelly and loped up the stairs to my house. As the clock chimed twice, I entered my living room, then my bedroom (which was still in shambles from my Affleck hair debacle), stripped off my suit and my shoes (oddly enough, in that order) and fell into bed.

The next thing I knew, it was 9:17 A.M. The sun was shining brightly and all I wanted was to start it over again.

The End.

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

* It was at this point in my life that I began to suspect that I had some sort of mild social anxiety disorder. Since this event, I've come to be positive of such a hypothesis.

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.

My Parents Laugh At Sex

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