What in the Actual F@ck!!
I have now attended two weddings in the last month or so, and I have come to the conclusion that the English language has officially surrendered.
Not to artificial intelligence.
Not to political correctness.
Not even to the people who think a man wearing a dress shirt with the top four buttons undone is dressed for a wedding.
No.
We have been defeated by one fucking word.
FORMAL.
Both wedding invitations said exactly the same thing.
Attire: Formal.
Simple enough, right?
WRONG.
Apparently, somewhere between Emily Post, Neiman Marcus, and the complete collapse of Western civilization, the word “formal” became a multiple-choice question with no correct answer.
Now, I am 63 years old. I’ve attended hundreds of weddings, charity galas, black-tie dinners, and enough formal events to qualify for an honorary doctorate in putting on a bow tie.
And for my entire life, the word FORMAL has meant one thing.
A FUCKING TUXEDO.
Don’t believe me?
Walk into Neiman Marcus. Saks Fifth Avenue. Brooks Brothers. Or any men’s clothing store in America.
Ask the salesperson where the “Formal Wear Department” is.
They will not direct you to khakis.
They will not direct you to a blue blazer.
They will not direct you to the section featuring untucked shirts and loafers without socks.
THEY WILL TAKE YOU TO THE FUCKING TUXEDOS.
But apparently, when you get married, you are granted the supernatural ability to redefine the English language.
And you don’t even have to tell anybody.
You just write “Formal” on an invitation and watch 200 people play a $1,000 game of Fashion Jeopardy.
So, being the responsible, respectful, incredibly sophisticated gentleman that I am, I decided to ask the parents of both brides exactly what “Formal” meant.
This is where the shit got interesting.
WEDDING NUMBER ONE:
“Formal” meant absolutely, positively, under no circumstances should anyone wear a tuxedo.
A suit.
Just a suit.
Not a tuxedo.
Apparently, wearing a tuxedo would have been the fashion equivalent of showing up to a funeral dressed as the Grim Reaper.
WEDDING NUMBER TWO:
“Formal” meant BLACK FUCKING TIE.
A tuxedo.
Not a suit.
Not a blazer.
Not your favorite navy sport coat.
A FUCKING TUXEDO.
Same word.
Same country.
Same century.
Completely opposite instructions.
I began to wonder if I needed to hire an interpreter to read wedding invitations.
Or maybe there’s an app.
FORMAL TRANSLATOR™
Simply photograph your invitation, and our artificial intelligence will tell you whether to wear a tuxedo, a suit, or whatever the fuck the bride’s mother happens to be thinking that afternoon.
One of the fathers of the brides actually had the audacity to point out this obvious linguistic insanity to his wife.
He said something to the effect of:
“If I walk into Neiman Marcus or Saks and ask for the formal wear department, they send me to the tuxedos. So why doesn’t formal mean tuxedo?”
A perfectly logical question.
A completely reasonable observation.
An absolutely fatal marital mistake.
Apparently, he spent the next three or four nights sleeping in a separate bedroom.
THREE OR FOUR FUCKING DAYS.
For correctly identifying a department in a retail establishment.
I laughed so hard I almost fell out of my chair.
This poor bastard wasn’t arguing about the guest list, the flowers, the cost of the wedding, or why a photographer now costs more than a used Mercedes.
He was simply explaining how department stores are organized.
And for that, he was sentenced to solitary confinement.
Marriage is a beautiful institution.
Especially when you get to sleep in your own bed.
But wait.
It gets better.
Let’s examine what people actually wore to these two weddings.
At the ABSOLUTELY NO TUXEDOS wedding, several family members and close friends showed up wearing…
You guessed it.
FUCKING TUXEDOS.
And at the BLACK TIE, TUXEDOS REQUIRED wedding?
Several family members and close friends showed up wearing…
SUITS AND SPORT COATS.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
The people closest to the bride and groom couldn’t figure it out!
These are people who probably attended the rehearsal dinner, knew the families for decades, and had the bride’s mother’s cellphone number.
And even THEY were dressed for different events.
At both weddings, there were also guests who apparently interpreted “Formal” to mean:
“I found some pants.”
No tie.
No tuxedo.
No apparent concern for the concept of a dress code.
Just slacks, an open-collar shirt, and the confidence of a man who has absolutely no idea that he is attending a wedding rather than a regional insurance conference.
One guy looked like he had just come from selling a timeshare.
Another looked ready to give a TED Talk about cryptocurrency.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there wondering whether my bow tie is going to get me thrown out of the building.
NOW LET’S GO BACK TO 1988.
Thirty-eight years ago, when Lauren and I got married, I wanted two beautiful, elegant, unambiguous words printed on our wedding invitation.
BLACK TIE.
Not “Formal.”
Not “Dress to Impress.”
Not “Cocktail Chic.”
Not “Festive Elegance.”
And certainly not whatever the hell “Garden Glamour” means.
BLACK. TIE.
Two words.
Even an eight-year-old could figure it out.
But we had a problem.
Two of Lauren’s cousins didn’t want to rent tuxedos.
Two.
Not twenty.
Not the entire wedding party.
TWO FUCKING COUSINS.
Now, remember, this was 1988.
You could rent a complete tuxedo, shirt, bow tie, cummerbund, shoes, and probably a small condominium in Boca Raton for about twenty bucks.
TWENTY DOLLARS.
And these two cousins didn’t want to spend it.
So, to accommodate these two fashion revolutionaries, we had to put:
BLACK TIE OPTIONAL.
On OUR wedding invitations.
I have been married for 38 years.
I have raised a family.
Built businesses.
Survived economic collapses.
Experienced countless moments of joy, disappointment, and absolute insanity.
And yet, somewhere deep inside my brain, those two cheap bastards still occupy valuable real estate.
Rent-free.
Both have been dead for decades.
DECADES!
And I’m still pissed off about the twenty fucking dollars.
Lauren keeps telling me to let bygones be bygones.
I have tried.
I really have.
But every time I see the words “Black Tie,” I think about those two cousins.
May they rest in peace.
Preferably in tuxedos.
At this point, I think we need to eliminate wedding dress codes altogether and replace them with something people can actually understand.
Maybe invitations should simply say:
“Wear a fucking tuxedo.”
Or:
“Wear a suit. If you show up in a tuxedo, we will assume you are the magician.”
Or:
“We don’t give a shit. Just bring a nice gift.”
At least we’d know where we stand.
But I think I’ve come up with something even better.
A revolutionary new dress code.
Something so sophisticated, so inclusive, so completely meaningless that it will immediately become the standard for weddings across America.
FORMAL OPTIONAL™
That’s right.
Formal Optional.
Wear a tuxedo.
Wear a suit.
Wear a sport coat.
Wear shorts.
Show up in a bathrobe.
Hell, wear the wedding invitation.
Who gives a shit?
The bride will still be beautiful.
The groom will still be nervous.
The father of the bride will still be wondering how the hell a wedding cake costs $4,000.
And by 10:30 p.m., half the guests will have removed their jackets, loosened their ties, and started dancing like they’re auditioning for a neurological study.
Which brings me to my final observation.
If you want people to wear tuxedos, write BLACK TIE.
If you want people to wear suits, write SUITS.
If you don’t care, write WHATEVER.
But if you write FORMAL…
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TELL US WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN.
Because at my age, I have better things to do than conduct a forensic investigation into wedding attire.
And somewhere up in heaven, Lauren’s two cousins are probably looking down at me, laughing their asses off.
Still refusing to rent tuxedos.
And I’m still not letting it go.
Have a wonderful day.
And remember:
Life is too short to be miserable.
But apparently, it’s long enough to hold a 38-year grudge over two twenty-dollar tuxedos.
Directive 17