I picture myself looking elegant, every attention paid to detail. I walk towards him and with each step I take…step, together, step, together…we are one giant leap closer to being Mr. & Mrs. As I approach him I notice the flowers to my left, the gowns to my right, and the rose pedals upon which my pedicured toes fall. I continue walking until finally, there he is; 5’8, though his pants are sized for someone at least 8’5, baggy and unkempt. I check him up and I check him down and think “well, there he is…” but what I’m really thinking is…”Oh…there…he…is…” and it wasn’t the kind of speechless I expected, and it wasn’t the kind of breath taking I expected either. A tuxedo is a statement of utter simplicity and he has confused it with the infusion of this hip-hop influence. I don’t know whether to say, “I do” or “I diggity-diggity-bling-blinggity do”. Would you wear a basketball jersey to a baseball game? Or take a BigMac into a BK? Certain things are sanctified by the beauty of their occasion and must be untainted at the risk of forever affecting their validity.
I shift my focus, I imagine walking along the beach, our honeymoon, every attention paid to detail as we strut along the boardwalk. I see us standing on the tip of a dock, “well, there he is…my husband” and I see his silhouette, tall, dark and baggy.
I envision us on our anniversary, he’ll wake me up, make me breakfast and then we’ll walk the dog. I can see it now, I’ll be tired from all the stress, and he’ll take my hand…I’ll begin to tell him how wonderful our wedding was, we’ll allude to the days of our past, and the foolish games we used to play. We’ll discuss the antiquate charm of our wedding, and lament the ways in which we fought. I’ll lie and tell you that your version of a tuxedo is charming, and you’ll bite your tongue and tell me that I’m the only thing that will never go out of style.