I love to dress up. Calm down, pervert — not in that way. I’m talking about putting on a nice suit or a classic tux for a night out on the town. Now, you financial boys are like, “Dude, I wear a fucking suit to work every day and I hate it.” Well, guess what? I don’t. I’m usually dressed like an out-of-work college kid. A pair of white Chucks, over-washed green army pants, and a plain T-shirt are my go-to work outfit — an outfit that is quite often asked to make the all-important transition from day to night. (Yeah, I’ve rolled into an elegant cocktail party looking like a gas-station attendant. What of it?)
But tonight is different. Tonight I’m putting on my fancy pants so I can attend a black-tie event being held at a museum. Well, don’t I sound cultured? Truth be told, I’m not. I attend an occasional play, I’ve never been to the ballet, and the last time I went to a museum was over a year ago, when I took my two nieces to the Museum of Science. (Yes, it’s fun to find out what my voice really sounds like. But ya know what? It kind of freaked me out. I haven’t been back since.)
Okay, enough chitchat. It’s time for me to get dressed. Last year I did something I never thought I’d do: I bought a tuxedo. Not some pre-cut, Tello’s-inspired “tux-e-don’t,” but a real-deal, custom-fitted, big-boy tuxedo. Gentlemen, if you don’t own one, I suggest you consider it. A classic never goes out of style. Not to mention, tuxedo rentals can be sketchy. You can’t exactly be Mr. Charming at the big event if your pants are powder-blue and three inches too short. Then again, they’ll go nicely with that metallic cummerbund they came with. Work it, Bond, work it!
I arrive at the event, meet up with some friends, and begin to take in the scene. I’m not sure what’s more enjoyable to look at: the collection of magnificent artwork hanging on the walls of this world-class museum, or all the tail walking around in couture gowns and bad-ass heels. I assure you, nothing but masterpieces in both categories.
The night is mostly full of proper conversation and Champagne, but toward the end of the evening, the crowd starts to turn ugly. Women are dancing, glasses are breaking on the floor, and I find myself slurping vodka while discussing the status of the “hot Latina” on the opposite side of the room. It appears two friends of mine have a little competition going on to see who can land her first. CLASSY!
The night finally comes to an end, but not before I manage to hit two local bars and, finally, a 24-hour gas station so I can pick up “dinner.” As I make my way to the counter with my Gatorade, some sort of meat sandwich, and a package of cookies, I notice the attendant staring at me. “Nice outfit,” he says, looking me up and down. “Thanks,” I reply.
I really like yours, too.
