PICKING UP THE DUDS

I had to pick up my tux. I was about fifteen pounds lighter then when I had gotten my measurements, maybe two months ago. This was a product of some exercise, but mostly some stress-induced dinnerless nights.

As I walked to the tux store, I thought about my pants possibly being too big. I wasn’t sure how pounds equate to inches, but I prefer all pant droppings to be voluntary. Christa and The MG had very different takes on this shrinkage. Christa was very annoyed that I could lose weight by doing nothing (that is, nothing that she wasn’t doing). Never flaunt your metabolism to a loved one in a pre-wedding fitness scenario. There is no winner there. On the other end, The MG, acting as my mom, was concerned about my health. She wasn’t comfortable with the weight-loss figures that Christa relayed to her over the phone.

“He loses weight just sitting around. It’s not fair,” Christa complained to her.

“That’s not normal. Does he have a worm? Maybe he should see a doctor?” The MG replied. A tapeworm? Honestly?

“Why don’t you ask him,” Christa replied, handing me the phone.

I had to get on the phone and reassure my mom that I felt fine. I was simply exercising and skipping a meal every once in a while. I know it’s not the healthiest thing to do, but it’s not a parasite or a debilitating disease.

After I got off the phone, Christa said, “That’s great. Now, not only does she think I can’t really cook, but you’re malnourished because of it. Or maybe she thinks I’m feeding you some kind of infected meat, since we apparently live in filth.”

I thought she might be overreacting, but stating so might be construed as a negative comment. I felt that wasn’t worth the risk.

“You know I didn’t ask you to marry me because of your cooking and cleaning skills. It’s because we’re meant for one another, even if we eat mac and cheese and live in squalor for a few days, before we decide to do something about it,” I replied.

“You can’t say I didn’t give you plenty of warning,” she stated.

“Noted.”

Arriving at the tux store, I was greeted by the friendly staff.

“Tux for Lloyd, please,” I said.

“Here you are, sir. Why don’t you try it on and make sure it fits.”

I was assisted into the jacket and, for some reason, my arms seemed to be held slightly aloft. I understood this was a penguin suit, but that’s based on the color pattern, not the fact that I was now limited to 80 percent rotator-cuff motion and couldn’t reach into my pockets. My armpits puffed out moisture, because this was even worse than the baggy-pants scenario that had been running through my mind.

Before I could put a voice to my racing thoughts, the kind gentleman said, “Oops, this is Matt’s tux.”

Yes, I do have a narrower brother, and I was putting on his jacket. “Ha.” My wedding plan-racked brain induced a nervous laugh.

“I thought I had lost weight,” I said.

I made a funny. I tried to stabilize my thoughts and reassure my fragile confidence. Keep working the friendly, just a few more hours until cocktail hour at the rehearsal dinner. It’s a marathon, but we’re almost done, I told myself.

“Don’t worry, the pants are adjustable,” my assistant replied, reducing my fear.

Who is Tuxedo Jim, and how can I shake his hand? Adjustable pants, damn! Tuxedo renting that’s starvation- and glutton-proof, the great Oz has spoken, and it will be done. Please tell me there is some kind of space-age polymer that makes them stain, wrinkle, and flame resistant as well. I went into the changing room, hopped in, and adjusted the flaps to streamline, just snug enough to hold onto my newly svelte hips.

I gave the thumbs up as I returned to the sales floor. “If you see Jim, tell him to stop by the reception for a drink on the house,” I said.

“Do you want to take your brother’s tux?” they asked.

“Oh, Christ, I better,” I replied.

“And how will you be paying?”

“Do you accept blood platelets?”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival