The Dress

There comes a point in every husband’s life when he is going to be placed in that one situation when he is going to be asked that one impossible question. It is the one question that cannot be answered. No, let me correct myself it is one question that should never be answered. You may not know it but your entire marriage; actually, your very life depends on it. Your father will make a special point to sit you down, have the talk with you that his father had with him, the talk his father had with him. You will never know how important this talk is until the situation is placed directly in front of you. It is so important that if you answer this question incorrectly you might as well grab your blanket, get your favorite pillow, find your childhood teddy bear and head for the couch, because that’s where you are going to be sleeping for the next month.

Let’s set the situation. First, you are married; second, you are going to a company dinner that requires that everything goes perfectly; and finally, your wife is nervous about making a good impression on the people she doesn’t know, your co-workers. While you are the man and it takes a whole fifteen minutes to get ready, seven minutes which is used to trim your ear and nose hairs and another four minutes of which were used to sing and dance in front of the mirror to a Britney Spears song when you thought nobody was watching. Of course, the radio gets switched back to country music when you think you hear somebody approaching; preferably the manliest of country singers.

What you don’t realize is that this is one of those occasions that your wife has been planning for almost an eternity, nearly two weeks. She has spent nearly a thousand dollars at the hairstylist, she has dropped a few hundred dollars at the nail salon, and of course, she has taken out a second loan on the house to purchase what she and twenty-three sale assistants have proclaimed “The Perfect Dress.”  

On the day of the company function, she has taken the day off from work and has been locked in her secret lair. There are fifteen extension cords running underneath the bathroom door for dozens of feminine power tools. She is relentlessly working on every aspect on her body. She will catalogue this, file it away, and unless you are very careful she will remind you of this day in every argument for the rest of our life. She will remind you of it at every opportunity, especially when she wants to divert attention from herself that she has again maxed-out all twenty-five credit cards. You know, the twenty-five cards that have been conveniently put in your name only. However, if find you the courage to be a real man and politely suggest that she might have spent too much she will, with tears pouring from her eyes, reply “I have done all of it for you.”

There was a time not to long ago when I was in this fateful situation. It was the company Christmas dinner. My boss was going to be there, his boss was going to be there, all the managers of the company was going to be there. To me, it was just another boring night. You know the type I’m talking about. There’s Phil, the corporate brown-noser, he would have his lips permanently attached to the boss’s behind if he could. There’s Jim, the boozer, he has gotten falling down drunk at every party he has been invited to, though we suspect that he’s not getting invited as many any more. And Finally, there’s Jerry, the gossip, he’s knows all the dirt on everybody. He knows who’s sleeping with whom, he bucking for the promotion, and who’s getting fired. There is even a rumor that the boss checks with him before he ever makes a move.
  
On this particular occasion, I took my time getting ready; I took a whole seventeen minutes; somebody actually put soap in the shower and I felt obligated to use it. I found my clothes strategically placed on the bed. As every woman will lecture in her secret meetings with other women, men are colorblind, have no taste in proper attire, and would wear only their underwear if they were allowed. Anyways, after I had gotten dressed I sat back in the lazy-boy, was drinking from my water bottle (It’s only thing I allowed to drink when I am in dress clothes) and was watching an episode of Baywatch. It might have been a repeat, but does it really matter? Well, my wife came parading in front of the television, interrupting the very best part; you know the part I’m talking about, the slow-motion running scene. Well, she posed, she turned, she twirled, and finally she did the glamorous runway walk.  

“Well, how do I look?” A large smile was beaming across her face. “Oh my God!” The question was finally here. “Remember your training!” kept running through my head.

My eyes darted back and forth, beads of sweat were beginning to form on my brow, and felt my stomach getting queasy.   

I may not be the smartest person in the world, but I knew what the answer was to that question. I have been trained, I knew my part, I was in my place, and besides I meant it, I have always meant it. I quickly answered. Besides, I think this is the response preprogrammed into our genetic make-up.

“You look beautiful.”

However, this is where the plot thickens. Since she has received the required and desired answer, it is now time for self-doubting, she stops turning and spinning and then the comments begin.

“I wasn’t sure if this dress was right.” She paused for a moment, waiting for the required response.

“It looks perfect.” I quickly responded. “Stay focused!” my inner voice was screaming.

Then it happened. She asked the question, the one question that my father had told me about, the one question his father had told him about. However, I had forgotten the proper response. I don’t know why it happened. Maybe, it was that Baywatch was on, maybe, it was the vodka I had secretly put in the water bottle, or maybe, it was that the genetic preprogramming to answer this simple question had skipped a generation.

“Does this dress make my butt look big?”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I answered like a married couple that jokes with each other, answering “Don’t blame it on the dress, I really like that dress!” or maybe, I answered like a married couple that has been married fifty years, answering “I’m sorry, can you repeat the question. I couldn’t hear you over the loud beeping noise when you were backing up!” However, I made the biggest of mistakes, in a momentary lapse of clear judgment, I accidentally answered honestly. Let me set the record straight right now, honesty sucks. Nobody can predict how a woman is going to react when you answer truthfully. Trust me, next it happens I am going to tell lies like I’m Bill Clinton answering questions about Monica Lewinsky.

  “Go ahead, you can tell me the truth.” she exclaimed. ‘Does this dress make my butt look big?”

“No, not really.” But, before I realized what I had done wrong she darted away in an Olympic sprint, crying all the way to the bathroom, then it hit me. “What have I done?” my mind shouted. I blew the one question my father had trained me for. Well, you can guess what has happened next. I spent the rest of the evening leaning against the bathroom door, giving apology after apology after apology.  

Of course, when a mistake this big has been made there is only one thing that can cure this ailment, jewelry, flowers, and time. For weeks on end, I bought every type of flower known to man. I bought the bracelet that she always wanted, a ring she glanced at once, and a necklace from a catalogue that was rumored that she looked at once. Well, let me give you a little hint about something, when women wears jewelry, it is a symbol to all the members of the secret women’s society that her man has messed up. Anyways, it took numerous apologies and a lot of money, but eventually everything was okay.

Of course, you would have thought that I would have learned my lesson, don’t you? However, I didn’t. Well, I don’t want to get into details, so I’ll give you a little hint; if you bump into a woman who is wearing lipstick and it gets on your shirt, tear the shirt from your body, throw away your wallet, give yourself a black eye, and say you were attacked by a madman. No amount of talking or money can get out of that one, whether if you are being truthful or not.