Suits me -- but not so fine

My son is getting married this summer, and I need to buy a new suit. I dread this, naturally, as I live by Henry David Thoreau's words: "Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes." At the risk of being presumptuous, I might amend Thoreau's quote by adding the phrase, "especially those that involve a stranger measuring your body."

But my son and future daughter-in-law have told me I need a new suit for the big day, and while I’m prepared to ignore my son, I am eager to keep his bride-to-be happy, as she's taking him off my hands and I don't want to give her any reason to change her mind. I'd wear a Lady Gaga meat suit if she asked me to.

So, anyway, I’m going suit shopping, which, did I mention, I hate. It’s been awhile. I have a life and a career that rarely requires me to wear a suit. In fact, were I to show up at work in one, my colleagues likely would offer condolences and perhaps deposit a funeral casserole or ham on my desk.

Most of the time I'm pleased I’m not a suit-and-tie guy, but occasionally it occurs to me that this probably should be a source of embarrassment for a guy my age. I mean, I could show up at work in shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and bolo tie and flip-flops and probably make it through a day or two before someone questioned my garb. Either that, or others would start copying me, assuming I knew something they didn't, though I never do.

Although it's been awhile, I do recall how unpleasant suit shopping is. On one occasion, a suit salesman used the word Crisco to describe my build. "Crisco, what does that mean?," I asked, ill-advisedly. "Fat in the can," said he.

I already know my inseam-to-waist ratio runs opposite the direction I'd like, putting me solidly in the Short and Fat Demographic, and I don't need some dude measuring me to confirm it. And while I'm at peace with the fact that my waist certainly has grown since my last suit purchase, I'm terrified that my inseam may have shrunk. I mean, for some reason, I've just felt closer to the ground lately. Either I’m being beaten down, or the ground is rising – maybe from all this recent seismic activity.

And, Lord, surely they’ve come up with a digital way to measure the inseam by now, haven't they?

Shopping for new clothes -- especially nice ones -- is an unwelcome reminder that the middle-aged body is in a losing war against gravity, appetite, the recliner chair and other inexorable forces of nature. I do what I can. I work out several times a week and try, with mixed success, to control my intake. Like most at my age, I’m long past vanity. I'd just like to be around to dance at my son's son's wedding someday -- or at least to be wheeled in by my hot, young, live-in nurse and have her wipe wedding cake and drool off my chin and shoo children off my oxygen tube when I begin turning blue.

I did make an initial foray into a local men’s clothing story over the weekend and looked around for the fat salesmen. But, no, the salesmen were all glib, slim young men who are of no real assistance to me, for they’ve never felt the strain of the jacket across the midsection, or heard that faint ripping sound from the seam between the cheeks when they bend over to pick up a fork from the floor at the buffet and face that choice: Do I slink back to my table, back against the wall, now, or hope the pants hold together long enough for me to walk over to fill my plate with one last serving of fried chicken first?

Presumably, it was after a visit to a suit shop that Thoreau made his aforementioned observation -- and then headed out to Walden Pond to live the rest of his days in shorts, Hawaiian shirts and bolo ties and flip-flops.

There’s another Thoreau line worth noting: “I stand in awe of my body,” but I suspect that was transcribed incorrectly.

What he meant was: “I stand. Aaaagh, my body!”