To me, a tuxedo for a middle-aged man should be bent a little, like a question mark. It should flair out at the hips, then taper off at the knees, which have already begun to decompose.
NFL jersey. On the shoulders, there should be epaulets, and there should be purple hearts on the chest for all the blood we spill for other people every minute of every day -- not just our wives, but also our children, our parents, our accountants, our dogs, our bosses, our assistant coaches, our bartenders, our therapists.
Actually, I'm my own therapist now, did I mention that?
"How are Tuesday afternoons for you?" I ask, looking at my schedule.
"Sorry, can't make that," I say.
Admittedly, people who act like little boys and refuse to wear tuxes probably need more help than I can really offer. But the price is right -- $80 an hour -- and I don't have to travel far to see me.
In fact, next session, we'll talk about this debutante ball they're making me attend. That's right, a deb ball, with waltzing and tuxes and girls in white dresses and satin sashes. It will be held in a grand hotel that looks -- to borrow an old Hollywood line -- like the kind of place where they sign peace treaties.
Honestly, I thought all that debutante stuff ended with the Civil War. I thought that's what we were fighting for -- to preserve the Union and end ritzy evenings filled with stiff shoes and stiffer drinks.
For once, I was wrong.
Next week: the debutante ball