It's all about me and comfort

Look in the upper right-hand corner of this space and you'll see a guy who, if he could only get away with it (and believe me, he's tried) would dress casually for the rest of his life.

I make this proclamation as I fuss and fidget through my final fitting for a tuxedo. For reasons I can't fathom (although temporary insanity must play into it), my wife's brother asked me to be a groomsman at his upcoming wedding. He said he'd be honored if I participated, and, like the epitome of class that I am, I hesitated, hemmed and hawed before telling him I had to check my calendar.

Now, my calendar couldn't be any more wide open than a shark's mouth during a feeding frenzy, but I wanted him to think I was in demand. Unfortunately, he knows me well enough by now to realize my Saturday nights are usually spent drinking cheap beer while I alternate between watching midget wrestling and cleaning up cat poop.

"Never mind," he said. "I'm sure somewhere there's a wino available."

I didn't think he'd call my bluff so quickly, so I generously cleared my full schedule so I could participate. He's my brother-in-law, for crying out loud, and I've always firmly believed that family should be there for one another. Honestly, the fact that I would get free booze, a limo ride and catered meals out of it never entered into my decision.

So here I am, enduring this monkey suit as a tailor adjusts it here and there. When we groomsmen were first shown what we'd wear for the ceremony, I made a comment something like, "You know where you can plant that!" before my common sense could catch up and glue my lips shut. It made for a really awkward moment, during which all the blood drained from my wife's face. And my mother-in-law, who, although she's never actually said it, thinks her daughter would be far better off with an eczema-covered circus freak, positively sneered at me.

See, I've only worn a tuxedo once before, when I was best man at my cousin's wedding. In our single days, he and I used to go out together every weekend and try to debauch ourselves, which never worked because the women we met didn't want to cooperate. I mean, we'd ply them with countless top-shelf drinks, and compliment their scanty clothes and hold their little mirrors for them as they constantly re-layered their eyes with purple mascara, but as soon as our money tapped out they would suddenly remember they were supposed to meet handsome, richer guys at the other end of the bar. Anyway, the tuxedo my cousin chose for his groomsmen was as stiff as the mashed potatoes when it's my night to cook dinner, and he got fairly honked off when I poked big holes in the cumberbund to let in some air.

So with that horrible reminiscence skidding through my head, I looked at this tuxedo my brother-in-law wanted me to wear and made that not-exactly positive comment about planting it somewhere. If you're my mother-in-law, and still hopeful you'll someday have a legitimate reason to brain me with a cast iron skillet, odds are good you're not going to take it well.

They don't understand that, being invited to so few soirees, I'm unaccustomed to wearing anything that requires dry cleaning. In the morning I always pull on jeans and ratty sneakers, and an old T-shirt printed with some clever epigram like, "I'm cute, I'm just subtle about it" and I'm good to go. My wife always says with that outfit all I need is a street corner and a tin cup, a remark that never fails to break me up, even after she insists she's serious and leaves Eddie Bauer catalogues laying around the house.

It's all about comfort, something this tux just isn't doing for me. I don't understand why my suggestion that my brother-in-law get married on an outdoor basketball court so I can sleep in until just before he exchanges vows, and so my favorite Spider-Man shirt will fit the occasion just perfectly, made him eat a whole bottle of Rolaids.

I've had just about enough of this, he told me, so suck it up, it's only one night. I wholeheartedly agreed because, after all, he's my kin, and not because he and the other groomsmen threatened to give me a swirly in the reception hall restroom if I don't.

So now all that nonsense is behind us and everyone is happy. Except, let me just say that if the tailor grumbles one more time about having to let the waist out again, this time maybe all the way to Hawaii, I'm going to strangle him with his tape measure.