May I Be Excused? Saying ‘I do’ to wardrobe upgrades for a weekend

Kristen and I struggle to convey to our teenage children that some events call for a wardrobe upgrade to their usual outfits of drawstring shorts and irreverent tees.

To Elliott, Khaki pants and a button-down shirt might as well be a straitjacket. And if Margo can’t wear a thrift store find that she customized herself with kitchen scissors, well, then that event is “dumb.” I’m no different. I hardly even want to wear shoes let alone a starched collar.

I’ve heard nightmare scenarios like my sister’s co-worker in Vermont who was attending a Colorado wedding. The required dress code was “Elevated Cowboy.” Excuse me? Give me a minute while I throw up a little in my spittoon. I’m picturing a three-piece denim suit with a bolero tie. Maybe a 10-gallon hat with matching patent leather boots? Did he arrive on a horse? It all seems so itchy and unnecessary I would have had to decline. I do want to see the pictures though.

When Kristen, the kids and I were invited to my niece Julia and her fiancé Ben’s formal wedding weekend in Charleston, I realized we were woefully unprepared. We don’t know how to dress classy any better than we know how to pull off cowboy. And Julia is the first of Margo and Elliott’s many cousins to get married so we needed to dupe the extended family into thinking we can indeed be presentable.

The Thursday night barbecue at the groom’s parent’s beautiful home called for “Resort Casual” attire. That designation alone nearly paralyzed us because collectively, we haven’t spent much time at resorts. Turns out we couldn’t make it because the kids had to be at school that day, which perhaps is fortunate. There was a strong possibility I’d have shown up looking like either the ice cream man or the least confident member of a barbershop quartet.

“Cocktail Attire” would be needed for Friday night’s rehearsal dinner. Elliott and I could find passable outfits from the “if I really have to” section of my closet. Kristen opted to “Rent the Runway.” In fact, I think she rented all the runways. She was a knockout both nights but our apologies go out to anyone else who needed to rent a dress that month. My opinion was not sought after, nor needed by Margo. However, I was tabbed to manage her returns department.

The wedding itself was “Black Tie Formal” and I actually have a tuxedo I bought 20 or 25 years ago. They don’t go out of style, do they? Elliott tried it on but the pant legs billowed about him as if tailored by MC Hammer. Instead, we went to the mall and surrendered to the expertise of a knowledgeable salesman. So assuredly did he dismiss my assumptions that we needed frilly shirts, cummerbunds and super-shiny shoes that I didn’t even ask about a top hat.

The wedding was at perhaps the most breathtaking, secluded, golf club I have ever seen (and I’ve caddied at some nice places). Julia, Ben and their friends are all these impossibly good-looking, accomplished and fashionable young people. I imagined them as the cast of Gossip Girl ten years on, hedge fund geniuses who moonlight as Yves Saint Laurent models. It was a mystery to me how the groomsmen could wear those velvety-looking slip-on shoes with no socks in that humidity, but I suppose that’s why they’re them and I’m me.

Still, this was a peak fashion weekend for my little family. Elliott was dapper and Margo looked so stunning she nearly stole the show. Someone should have stuck a microphone in my face and asked, “WHO are you wearing?” I’d have glanced over each shoulder as if I really shouldn’t divulge such a secret. Then with reluctant acceptance of my fabulousness, I’d have whispered, “It’s Calvin Klein for Macy’s—ON SALE!” For one weekend, we did it. We really fooled them all.

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