I hate shopping for suits. I mean, I despise it. When I'm forced to shop for suits, I become 6 years old again. I pout, throw tantrums, stamp my feet (I'm serious). I hate shopping for clothes in general, so when I have to shop for clothes that are stuffy, include a jacket, and force me to button my shirt all the way to the top, I'm just a seriously unhappy person.
Now sadly, my upcoming wedding requires me to shop for dress clothes. So the other day, my fiancee Ramona and I trekked over to the Men's Warehouse to try and accomplish this task with little huss and fuss.
Let me preface our adventure by saying the following:
1) We failed miserably.
And 2) I lasted about 15 minutes before I stormed off. :-)
First, Ramona and I had to go to the negotiating table prior to our departure. She, like most women, enjoys treating her man like a Ken doll and having me try on everything under the sun, for however long it takes.
I wanted to be in and out in four minutes (including buying time).
So our compromise was: We wouldn't be there more than an hour, but if we didn't find something we could agree on, we'd have to go back.
A fair compromise. Except:
Ramona: OK Nev, it's time to go.
Me: Cool. Let me just set my watch alarm for 60 minutes.
Ramona: Well, you do realize that the clock doesn't start until we get there.
(pause)
Me: No, it starts when we leave.
Ramona: No, it starts when we get there.
Me: Leave.
Ramona: Get there.
Me: Leave!!
Ramona: Get there!!
(pause)
Me: This isn't fair!! (stamps my feet)
Ramona: Nev, will you just do this for me because you love me?
(pause)
Me: Cheap trick.
Then there was actually finding the place.
See, I had thought I knew where Men's Warehouse was, but as it turns out I had overshot it by a couple of blocks because the business moved locations a while back.
At least, that's what Normal Nev would assume.
But in my 6-year-old mind:
GOD DAMN IT!!! WHY ISN'T THIS PLACE WHERE IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE?!? WHY DID IT MOVE?!? YOU KNOW WHY? BECAUSE IT KNOWS I'M COMING, KNOWS I DON'T WANT TO COME, AND MOVED JUST TO DRAG OUT THIS PAIN AND SPITE ME!!!!!!
(Seriously. This is what I said word for word).
And then, when we finally found the place, we had to deal with the pushy sales lady Jasmine, who for the remaining of this blog will be referred to as BFH (Bitch From Hell).
Here was BFH's main problem: She wasn't a man (that's right, I said it). See, when it comes to shopping for fancy clothes, only a man adequately understands another man's pain in this regard. He's comforting, soothing, instinctivly knows that I have no idea what I'm doing, and -- most importantly -- understands the 60-minute time limit.
But BFH had no such social intelligence. She starts by asking me a really stupid question:
What kind of suit do you want?
How the hell should I know? I don't even want to be here!! Why does she think Ramona's there? For show? Ask her what I'm supposed to wear. I just wear what I'm told.
But BFH foolishly directs the questions toward me. Do I want a two-button jacket or three-button jacket? Do I want pleats? What color vest do I prefer?
Honestly, she might as well have been asking me to give a lecture on quantum physics. I was completely lost. And when I answered her with a bunch of blank stares, get this: She gets mad at me!! Why, she wants to know, did I come there without having at least a vague idea of what I wanted?
Or, as she put it:
Didn't you do any research?
If a man asked that question, he'd be castrated. Rightfully so.
Now: If a man was helping me, the process would go someting like this:
Man: You lookin' for a suit?
Me: Yep.
Man: Rentin' or buyin'?
Me: Rentin'.
Man: Wedding?
Me: Yep.
Man: Yours?
Me: Yep.
Man: Dude, this (holds up a suit) would look good on you.
Me: You think?
Man: Yep.
Me: Cool.
Quick. Easy. Simple. Elasped time: 38 seconds.
But alas, BFH couldn't fathom this approach and ripped me for it. And once she did that, Ramona knew that nothing she would say was going to prevent me from leaving.
So we did.
Calmly.
Collectively.
And with me vowing to wear a hooded sweatshirt at the altar.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
OK, this isn't really a SOTA, but I just love this commercial so. Nike recently came out with an ad campaign displaying Kobe Bryant and LeBron James as puppets. Check out their latest one here. It's hysterical!!
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3 comments:
Ok mistakes were made here.
1. You need to have a nice meal before you go. Perhpaps that chili cheese dog.
2. Just tell the BFH that Ramona is in charge and you will wear what she picks out.
3. Tell her you want the same style tux James Bond wore in Quantum of Solace.
4. You seem to have many gay male friends. Have one of them rip a picutre out of the bridal magazine for you and take it to the tux store and say I want that in (whatever size you take in a jacket and pants)
Then you will have a tux in about 10 minutes, with no hassle.
Just keep it simple and borrow Rami's cape and mask. That would be cool. You could replace the O for oatmeal with an R for Ramona. Yes?
Nevin, this is honestly the funniest entry you've made yet. You as a six-year old is just priceless.
I used to HATE shopping for suits/clothing of any kind until I got to New York. Then, I discovered Filene's Basement, which had both non-pushy salespeople (i.e. no one speaks to you unless you speak to them) and really nice designer clothing for ridiculously good prices (as in 60 to 70% off) only because...they came out last year. I will never forget purchasing a thousand dollar overcoat, that was in practically brand new condition, for I believe three hundred dollars, because it was ten months old. I still get complimented for that overcoat, five years later. :)
But also, you can have an amazing suit shopping experience in New York by going to Little Italy and getting an Italian tailor to custom-fit a suit for you. Sure, it takes longer than, say, four minutes, but imagine this. Guys helping guys, you get fitted for everything, including shoes and even a good-looking tie to go with the suit, and it takes at most thirty-five minutes. Come back a week later, and you're good to go.
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