I was in a friend’s wedding and went for a fitting at the tuxedo shop. Easy peasy right? Wrong.
Once the sales guy handed me a yellowish, sweat-stained shirt to try on, I should have known there would be an issue. I set him straight immediately and made him give me a brand new shirt which annoyed him to no end. Sorry if filth bothers me, but I am certainly not trying that dishrag on if it’s covered with enough sweat and God-only-knows-what to make it look yellow. As I came out of the dressing room with the shirt on, the sales guy winced and looked at me with a very confused look on his face and said “Where is all that blood coming from?”
Having no idea what he was talking about, I looked down and was caught off guard because it looked like I had been shot. There was blood all across the front of that shirt at every button from the neck straight down to the belly. I, of course, reacted as any sensible person would in that situation and started screaming “I’m fucking bleeding – Oh my God, I’m fucking bleeding!”
Apparently, since I am neurotic and forced him to give me a brand new shirt to try on, he neglected to take out all the pins and I stuck my finger, thus all the bleeding. I should have noticed, but because my hands are always so dry and cracked from my OCD compulsive constant hand washing I didn’t feel the pin prick me.
My wife reacted as she thought any sensible person should in that situation and started walking the other way and out the front door so that nobody would know she was in there with me. The sales guy from the shop, on the other hand, was a young punk and reacted like an asshole when he started screaming at me to calm down or he would smack me. It might not have been as big of a deal if it wasn’t Prom season and there weren’t fifteen High School guys getting tuxedos in there at the same time.
When you’re a High School kid, you kind of expect that High School kids will point and laugh at you and call you a Pussy among other things. When you’re an adult and they’re doing it to you, it’s a slightly different experience. I stood there like Carrie at the prom, literally covered in blood, and didn’t know what to do until the sales guy (compassionate once again) yelled at me “What are you standing there for – go take that shirt off!”
It’s then that I realized that my father was right all along: the day we stopped being allowed to hit other people’s kids was the day this country took a steep nosedive downwards. If I were able to get back into that dressing room and find my belt – I would have whooped some ass in that tuxedo shop. Needless to say, I got out of there real quick. The worst part of that whole process was that I didn’t even get the tuxedo there because there was no way that I could go back into that shop after that. At least the wedding was fun and I did look good…