“You’re the perfect woman.”
She realizes this as she writes down my chest, waist, and hip size, then asks rhetorically, “What are the typically ideal measurements?”.
Aaron and I could only look at each other, as we had no idea.
“Wow, so you’re a really hot chick!”, says Aaron.
Hi-LAR-ious. Years of confidence I’ve gained, girlfriends convincing me that I’m not too skinny, gone.
“And how much do you weigh?”
“After he’s had a buffet”, Aaron adds. My friend the comedian. To console me, he says, “It’s okay. Remember, you’ll be paired up with Jenn in the party”.
My counterpart. The tiniest girl I know.
In the last few years I’ve been to weddings for other friends, but Aaron’s the first out of my core group to get married (although Pat got engaged before him). To pay tribute to his culture, he wants the wedding to be a bit Scottish — something his Popa is especially pleased about.
As a groomsman, I’ll be wearing a kilt. As a Chinese guy, I’ll be feeling a little out-of-place.
He asked me to give him a hand in shopping for the regalia. What a culture shock. Looking through catalogues of claidheamh, sporrans, Sgian Dubhs, Ghillies Brogues. I can’t even pronounce the names. My tongue wasn’t made for these kinds of inflections.
“It’ll take you guys longer to get dressed than the bride”.
Before we leave I remember to ask, “Can we go traditional?”, with Aaron adding, “My Popa would be pretty upset if we didn’t”.
Traditional. The euphemism for commando. The euphemism for bear-ass naked.
“Don’t worry, everything is dry-cleaned”, say the woman reassuringly.
It’s only after we leave that I realize everything but the shirt is made of wool.
I’ll be scratching my balls through the whole service.