Who’s Classy?

I was really going places. It was my first charity ball, wedged around a company table and learning how to behave amongst the well-to-do. My boss’ boss had already snapped a forgotten tag from the sleeve of my jacket - purchased last minute at the finest men’s clothing store I knew of: Joseph A. Bank. Then the same Vice President leaned over and told me to stop talking halfway through dinner. People were not there to hear my stories. We had invited these guests to make them feel more important, so they would buy more widgets. My job was to sit quietly, laugh at everyone’s jokes, and most importantly: Act classy. Yet I just couldn’t.

And really never have.

The first time someone addressed their wedding invitation to a young, single Mr. Matthew A. Chapman, a bewildered groom had to call and clarify that putting “2” on the return card didn’t entitle me to a second steak at the reception. This was a total bummer, because I had planned on being extra hungry.

At the Kenney nuptials, where the ceremony was in Hebrew and they had a make-your-own reuben station, I walked in and yelled “Guys, They’re even giving away tiny hats! How fun is this party?”

When the Journys got hitched, I made off with what remained of the grooms’ cake, yelling “dibs!” as soon as the newlyweds departed. Grannies were already on my case for a speech in which I revealed a bit too much about the happy couple. Then the parents put me on notice for letting their cake go to the ants of Jackson, Mississippi’s Red Roof Inn.

I flew all the way to Chennai for my boy Matt and behaved through the course of his multi-hour ceremony. The moment it was over, I walked to a KFC in search of a sandwich that had fried chicken in place of buns. As an entire wedding party sat there waiting on me for pictures and sweating in the South Indian sun, I casually strolled back, even stopping at a pushcart to buy a fresh coconut. 

At my own reception, when a song called “Doing the Butt” encouraged our four hundred guests to get nasty, that was entirely on DJ Earthquake. We didn’t approve that. When the last dance was called, however, Soulja Boy’s “Crank That,” was absolutely our decision. So we kicked off our marriage with a coordinated dance to a song that wouldn’t be considered appropriate for any occasion.

When we made children and re-emerged in society as bonafide adults, I thought age and perspective might usher in a hint of sophistication. 

But I was soon back to my old ways. A super fun cocktail dinner jacket, once again purchased last-minute from Joseph A. Bank, still had the tail sewn together as I emceed our upscale school fundraiser. Late in the evening, my buddy Fritz brought this to my attention. He pulled out the conspicuous white thread from each side as my face lost its color. On the bright side, there was ample dancing room in that coat once he was done.

Much more was on the line as a relative on my wife’s side was getting married. A generously timed save-the-date signaled it would be black tie. We had plenty of runway to prepare for this first wedding of the next generation - where attendance now finds us more in the mindset of those paying vs. the pregaming youths who still have that detached whimsy about them. 

There was a tux hanging in my closet from bygone corporate event days. When I finally tried it on, the dimensions were…perplexing. How was I both fatter AND skinnier fifteen years ago? Baggy pants were reminiscent of MC Hammer and the jacket had miles worth of shoulder pad material. Hard to believe that Joseph A. Banks would ever cycle out of fashion, but it felt like I had stepped back in time. This wasn’t going to be classy enough.

To rent or to buy? Clearly, I was off to a bad start, because a discerning gentleman already has a tailored, classic black tuxedo hanging in his closet. But where did he get it from? We were less than a week until showtime, and I hadn’t made a final decision on how to proceed. My wife kindly indicated that I should hurry it up a little, lest I embarrass her yet again.

I finished a massage in town and had a few minutes to spare. Conveniently, there was a fine gentleman's clothier around the corner. I walked in and politely asked to see their tuxedo section. When the immaculately-adorned associate with perfect posture slid that $2000 jacket down my still-lubricated arms, he casually asked when the event was. The tailor could put in a rush job, the associate assured me in his metered-tone, but I would need to be measured today. Decision time.

I looked around the beautiful store, with innumerable ways to accessorize, polish and add refinement to a man’s life. One can’t help but aspire, at least for a moment, to looking that crisp. Whatever the day brought, at least you were stylish. 

Meanwhile, my hair was greasy, smelling of something weed-adjacent. I was in flipflops, wearing a hat with my nickname on it. This simply wasn’t my scene. I apologized for being myself and left in shame for Joseph A. Bank. 

The same man who sold me the cocktail jacket greeted my latest whirlwind entrance with a laugh. He measured me, moving past a chocolate ice cream stain on my crotch. “Good thing you are a common size!” he exclaimed as an experienced hand reached into a rack of separates. A full tux, shirt, vest and accessories were purchased just in time for afternoon carpool. 

Off to the wedding destination, just the wife and I. The weekend was going to be scorching hot. We had a hunch that at least part of the event would be outside. With our pre-selected outfits in tow, all we could do was think cool thoughts.

An hour in the hotel to get ready would normally be cake, but I had yet to unbox my haul from Joseph A. Bank. Streamlining the process, I unpacked each item as it went on my body. Extraneous tags, buttons, pins, cardboard and thread were removed one by one until a large pile sat at my feet. No way in heck I was going to miss something this time. Once the full kit was assembled, I talked to the mirror like Prince Charles while my wife’s hair ambitions went from Youtube tutorial-level to something in her wheelhouse. She put on her brand new shoes while also informing me that she hated them. I took that as a bad sign. 

Going to the chapel. Or in this case, taking winding country lanes to a picture perfect sanctuary that can comfortably seat five hundred. I pointed out that this was the whitest church I’d ever sat in, but just for clarity’s sake, added that we were talking about the paint color. I’m personally more accustomed to that old-world lighting, where stained glass and a bleeding Jesus or three make you feel like you’ve really done some sinning. 

The ceremony was ideal, despite there not being enough space to accommodate the entire wedding party in any geometrically satisfying way. Between bridesmaids, groomsmen, and something called a house party, there were a lot of folks involved - thus ensuring that the happy couple will be invited to a wedding every weekend until they are 40. 

Official proceedings over with, all signs were pointing to this reception really slapping. One slight problem. We were leaving the blessed inside and its mercifully conditioned air. On this southern summer day, the heat index was 110. Many finely dressed people changed locations while trying not to perspire this early in the game.

In a filtered and edited age, so much underwhelms. Not this place. It was, without comparison, the nicest house I have ever set foot in. Being some of the first arrivals to cocktail hour, my wife and I couldn’t help but explore a bit.

When the Mother of the Bride, who looked stunning, made the rounds and apologized for not including kids, I couldn’t help but laugh. No way I would bring my two up in this place. They would have spilled their drinks and handed me a half-eaten hors d'oeuvre in the first ten minutes. Those ornate vases and wall-mounted plates wouldn’t stand a chance. 

As someone who might be marrying off girls of my own one day, I selfishly didn’t want them to see this. One look at that tent out back and my bank account would be toast, times two. 

The sun was going down, but now that we were outside under the spectacularly decorated tent, I was regretting the trendy decision to wear a vest. Cummerbund probably would have been better, but the truly smart men amongst us had chosen suspenders.

My wife had already ditched her shoes after several difficult hours, but I resolved to keep decorum to the last. Bowtie still in place, cuffs linked and crisp, I had made it this far. The jacket and vest stayed on as I enjoyed a ravioli the size of my fist. No dance floor for this guy. Instead, I wandered around and kindly asked the bartenders if that giant pink tree behind them had been brought in for the occasion.

Back in the hotel room, I congratulated myself for five hours worth of class and sophistication. No big gaffs or faux pas this time! One more peek in the mirror to savor how good I look. Just then, the sweet voice of my love giggled, interrupting my glow. “Matt, you’ve got white thread hanging off of your jacket. Looks like one of your tails is still sewn together…”