A memorable wardrobe malfunction… that I hope Sue one day forgets
It’s always important to read the fine print - especially dress code descriptions on event tickets.
What purpose does memory serve if you can’t hold a grudge?
No one seems to be buying clothes these days - at least none visible beneath webcam sight lines.
One of the things I appreciate in this stage of my life is that I no longer don the monkey suit - my collection of dress shirts, jackets and ties collects dust at the back of the closet.
I’m colour-blind and no fashionista. It’s outfits of corduroy, flannel and plaid for this country bumpkin and (with curtains drawn) Sue says I am free to wear my garb of choice around the house.
For outings however, (which have become rare) she took the time to attach a series of garanimal tags to assist in my matching of pre-approved shirt, pant, and jacket combinations. Zebras get along just fine with wildebeests… but lions absolutely devour warthogs… you get the idea.
There is something so cozy and laid back about wearing comfy country clothes - that even Sue has embraced our new esthetic.
“I don’t want the summer to end,” Sue tells me. “But I am looking forward to cooler temperatures so I can start wearing my Braestone Dinner Jacket again.”
I think this single image best captures Sue’s fashion journey… as our friend Alec Scott put it: “From fine hosiery to hosery.”
It feels like an eternity ago but last year - before such gatherings were forbidden - Sue and I attended a fundraising gala in support of our local SPCA.
In true Orillia tradition, the dress code was all over the map - it was “anything goes.” You could find classic black tie, country overalls, and just about everything in between… including a few Braestone dinner jackets.
The common thread for attendees, from across this wide fashion spectrum were the strands of pet hair adorning their outfits. (The genius of the evening was the kid out front selling lint rollers… by the sheet.)
It was a night out - an opportunity to dress up - and it was all for a good cause. We were having such a delightful time that I judged it safe to bring up the memory of an outing from a few years previous that had not gone as well.
“Honey, remember that Gala when I got the dress code wrong?” I playfully giggled.
“I’m not ready to laugh about that one just yet, dear,” Sue replied.
So I dropped it - but here’s the backstory:
I had received tickets at work for a Gala Soirée - to be conveniently held in a fancy hall across the street from my office.
Sue was charmed when I mentioned the invitation and immediately had questions regarding dress code. I mindlessly reassured her, “It's a GALA - go big or go home,” I cried.
So, on the evening in question, Sue came to my office prior to the event. Her entrance was like that of Cinderella at the Prince's ball. She was purple, poufy and stunning. Had her slippers been of glass, she would have been an exact replica.
Sue brought my garment bag with black suit, bowtie and white dress shirt. As I penguined up in the hope of matching her splendour, we came to the realization that my cuff links were missing.
Ever resourceful, and without missing a beat, Sue rifled through my desk and came to the rescue with a handy substitute – a pair of large steel paper clips - the kind used to fasten thick bricks of paper.
“There!” exclaimed Sue. “We’ll be the Beau and the Belle of the Ball!”
And perhaps we were to be just that - but not how she may have imagined...
As we entered the hall, Sue’s grip on my arm tightened and the blood ran from her face. It would be an understatement to say we stood out, what with the other attendees dressed in drab pantsuits, slacks and casual business attire.
Every head in the room turned towards us and each attendee we walked by did a pronounced double take. More than one asked if we were performers - hired for the evening. “Where’s your wand?” one particularly cheeky guest dared to ask.
I turned to Sue and mumbled something about trying to blend in. She looked me in the eyes with the angst of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now and stated:“The horror.”
Why I didn’t think to verify such details beforehand, I’ll never know, but as I reached into my jacket pocket for the event tickets to read the find print (“casual business attire”), I sensed Sue’s reaction might be a little justified.
Things went from bad to worse as our table was positioned beside the stage and Sue’s chair fell within the circumference of one of the spotlights. A well-intentioned person sitting next to her said it was better to be overdressed than underdressed.
Sue leaned over to me and said, “Let’s get this evening over with as soon as possible.”
With elbows on the table, I hid my face in my hands, pulling my suit jacket arms up a few inches and unwittingly revealing the massive steel paper clips holding my cuffs in place.
Eyebrows around the table shot up in surprise. I smoothly moved my hands to my lap.
“Ok,” I said to Sue. “Let’s split.”
The drive home was deathly silent.
In garanimal terms, I was the warthog… Sue was the lion.
I finally broke the air with “one day we're going to find this really funny.”
That day has yet to come.
- 30 -
