fits the bill

FITS THE BILL

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

 
"Excuse me sir, may I measure your inseam?" "Buy me dinner first."
"Certainly; just remember it rides up with wear."

 

Let me preface this bitch-fest with the caveat:

 

I? Had never been suit shopping before. Not properly, I mean. I've watched Are You Being Served and I love [almost to an unhealthy extent] shopping for clothes ... well, shopping in general. I have assloads of separates and suit pieces [enough ties to choke the whole of the Kentucky Derby] which all fit and fit nicely. But, a lovely - well-tailored suit?

 

This, I did not have.

 

So, inexperience in-hand, and vain hope for a perfect "wedding suit" in heart I got my roommate to go with me [read: begged, pleaded and asked politely] as back-up and support and we embarked upon The Hunt For Red September [creative license, people].

 

Suit goals:

                     flattering and slim-fit style

                    a soft, but colour-flattering shade of grey (preferably in the deep pewter or charcoal family)

                    something that doesn't make me look like I'm wearing a hand-me-down Daddy's suit

                    ... and of course, NOT BREAK THE BANK!

 

Simple requests? You would think so ... and we both would be wrong.

 

Freshly shaven, but clad in PURPOSELY schlubby clothes [like I want to imply I've money to burn? Nuh uh] I walk in the door, Melanie at my side and within seconds, Mufasa moves in for the kill [Mufasa - ooh, say it again! Mufasa - oooh *giggle*]. A well-groomed young man in the heterosexual Arabic equivalent of Manolo Blahniks and a Chanel suit; he was - in truth - a shark in dress clothes.

 

Cue the Jaws music ... dum dum, dum dum, dum dum dum dum

 

Opening polite remarks fly, like chum in the water - pleasantries and descriptions of what I need with [stressed] POLITE references to 'on a budget' - and I'm soon doing a twirl in the full-length mirror.

 

[Oh come on, who wouldn't when presented with one? Let alone two three-way mirrors?!]

 

Five different suits line the display racks, held there as 'possibles' - a dove grey, a soft charcoal grey, an olive/grey mix and a sandy-wash - and I've a decision on my hands. Well, not really. The Buy 1/Get 1 Free sale makes it easy ... and Melanie makes it easier.

 

"Those two, definitely. They both look good on you."

 

Of course, she's right - that's one of the reasons I asked her along: Melanie has fantastic taste which, thankfully, mirrors mine enough that I feel bolstered. The chosen two are the soft charcoal and olive/grey suits. Despite Mufasa insisting that both jackets may need to be taken in at the wrist, we all agreed little-to-no tailoring was required for these tops.

 

The bottoms? Are where the fun began.

 

Yes, at 29 my weight fluctuates somewhere in the mid/high 170s, and my waistline lives between 31-33" [GAH!] depending on bloating, consumption of wine and the amount of chocolate in my immediate vicinity. So, I err on the side of caution and shop starting at 33" and when that [usually] is too big, I smily goofily and go down a size ... or two.

 

So, when the Suit-Shark Mufasa loosely - LOOSELY - tosses the tape measure around my waist and with a condescending look declares my waistline "A perfect 34" I froze. Melanie froze. Time? Froze.

 

The sound the sales staff heard was my jaw hitting the floor.

 

Look, I'm not saying 34" waistline is fat - far from it - however this bitch? Right here? Has been a consistent 32" since the 90s (dipping down to 29" in 2003 when I dropped 20lbs freshman year of college and up to 33" 4 months ago and back down to 32" last month).

 

The. Bitch. Did. Not. Just. Declare. That. Number.

 

In a hateful haze I tweeted vengeful remarks as I tried on the afore-mentioned size 34 pants ... hoping against hope that they would slump to the floor, sliding right off of my narrow hips and (all-too-small) bum.

 

Spitefully, they sat on my waist comfortably - with an admitted half-inch to spare.

 

Traitors.

 

Sucking it up, I modeled, twirled and allowed the seamstress to adjust [who remarked that I had perfect shoulders and was a slim-build - HA!] and declare the needed work.

 

From there, Mufasa tried to pair my beautiful soft charcoal suit with bright walnut leather shoes [seriously? Your taste is in your mouth] and proceeded to declare my avowed shoes were the wrong size - I wear 11 1/2 to 12 1/2 shoes, depending on the makers - he said size 10 -11.

 

Suit Shark here is losing points - fast. 

 

Swim faster, fucker.

 

After pairing and putting this all together, he announces that he shall leave us in the competent hands of Unnamed-Woman-in-Cast and Mo'. Stepping back, he leaves us in their well-tended grasp for all of 30 seconds before barrelling in and trying to press shirts and socks and ties on me, despite protests of budget and lack of need [or want].

 

An interminable time passed between his unctuous complimentary commentary and snide remarks about saving money and the escape that the counter promised.

 

Freedom.

 

Standing with Melanie at my side we heard the siren call of escape as the outside world beckoned. We were quickly queued up at the register as he played suit/shirts/ties/socks/discounts juggling acts.

 

And that? Is when we saw it:  Mufasa's special deal ... the discount he threw my way ... the super savings at hand ...

 

"Your total comes to $1121.42. Will that be debit or credit?"

 

Uhm.

 

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?

 

After my repeated protestations of "I'm on a budget - I don't wanna spend more than $300" to Mufasa this is his "on a budget" price?

 

My voice drops from Southern-tipped Surrey-English honey to a full-on Ozzie Osbourne on a Bender thick Anglo-English as I spew incoherently along the lines of "bloody buggery" and "bollocksed price?!" And Mufasa sees his hefty commission begin to fly out the window.

 

Between his 'under the table' [my arse] discounts and weeding out the chaffe from what I don't need - seriously, a suit, just a suit - we finally arrive at a number both parties can deal with.

 

Well, my bank account can with a little infusion of "investment" from Mum.

 

.................................................................

 

A well-tailored suit is the mark of a well-made man:
an over-priced suit is the mark of an easily swayed man
... sometimes the use of a cane is the only thing that separates the two.

 

Standing in front of the hall mirror at home, modeling my new and oh-so-lovely [read: pricey, still very pricey] tailored grey 100% wool Italian suit I look myself up and down ... this whole thing was a hassle, true.

 

But damn do I look good.

 

 

.......................................................................................

 

BONUS! As requested (not the best, but here are a few) PHOTOS of me in the suit before the ohmigawdd 900% humidity and high 80s temperatures of the outdoor wedding of my beautiful friends Katie Nebel and Brandon Hawes.

 

Comments

[BrianFarrey]

Pix or it didn't happen.

I mean, seriously, who posts about the trials and tribulations of buying a suit and then DOESN'T post a picture of himself wearing the final product? Fail.

[Benjamin Kissell]

*cough* I never seem to post REAL photos of me or mine on here ... I set up the "habit" of using primarily vintage photos. But, if you insist, Brian ... HAHA. Hope these (not very good) photos prove it happened. #nolongerfail?

[BrianFarrey]

There. Was that so hard? :-) Very sharp. Now go out there and break lots of boys' hearts.

[Benjamin Kissell]

I can only hope to ... of course, at a wedding when all attending (guests, bride/groom, etc) are drowning in the humidity it's tough to mack on men. Even moreso when you're the only single gay guy there. I hope on the suit's next outing I've better luck (tho' I couldn't have hoped for more fun! I <3 those 2)