Column: I’d give her the shirt off my back

By Thomas Winterhoff

First published on June 12, 2002.

Copyright © Thomas Winterhoff

Ah, the things we do for love.

As regular readers of this irregular column may recall (if they manage to read it before the budgies embark on their latest Jackson Pollock impersonations), I recently took a few weeks off from bruising my fingers on the ol’ keyboard to get married.

Although we planned from the outset to keep the reception fairly casual, we also (naturally) wanted to ensure that  the ceremony itself would be a very special one — as well as make it user-friendly for the dozens of international paparazzi that were expected to descend on the secret location where we would exchange our vows.

My wife had her wedding outfit all organized months before our wedding day, since her maid of honour is a very accomplished dressmaker in her own right and had offered to sew her a dress from scratch.

I was not quite so lucky, however, since my best man can barely tell one end of a needle from the other. So about a week before the big day, I dug deep into the back of our bedroom closet to see if anything in my stash of “good clothes” might be suitable to get hitched in.

I should say right up front that, as far as fashion goes, I tend to view clothing with a distinctly utilitarian eye. I use it primarily to avoid being arrested in the street, as opposed to trying to dazzle friends and co-workers with my sizzling sense of style.

Suffice it to say that I have never been approached to carve out a new career as a fashion consultant to the stars. No editor from GQ magazine has ever come pounding on my door looking for helpful hints on dressing the modern male. Nonetheless, I did want to look my best for my fiancée on our wedding day, so I tried my utmost to come up with an outfit that would look acceptable from at least one camera angle.

After a half-hour or so of haphazardly fiddling around with different colour combinations and “groom-to-be” ensembles (and almost asphyxiating myself with a particularly stubborn necktie), I decided that I was ready. Inordinately proud of the fact that I’d managed to dress myself somewhat respectably with virtually no outside assistance, I went into the living room and presented myself for inspection.

My wife has the sweetest demeanor imaginable, an innate sense of diplomacy and the unflagging patience of a saint, so you can imagine my surprise when she emitted a ladylike yet bloodcurdling scream when she got a good look at what I’d done to myself.

“Oh, no… No, no, NO! You are not getting married to me in that!” she exclaimed — or words to that effect.

Then, tucking me rather unceremoniously under one arm, she proceeded to march me downtown to buy a new wedding shirt.

This — like the fiasco we recently experienced while setting up a wedding registry — was an entirely new experience for me. I would have been quite satisfied to purchase a crisp, new shirt at any run-of-the-mill department store. But having gone this far (and catching sight of the determined and slightly manic look in the eye of my betrothed), I didn’t argue when we finally burst through the gleaming front doors of British Importers, an upscale men’s clothing shop.

As soon as we came to rest on the plush carpet of the very well-appointed haunt of the well-to-do (or better-to-do than me, anyway), I knew we were in trouble.

The salesperson who ended up assisting us was a very pleasant individual and extremely knowledgeable about menswear. He also very admirably restrained himself from recoiling in horror at my staggering lack of fashion sense when he saw what I was wearing.

Having never bought clothing in the rarefied air of this particular shop before (in which a well-dressed gentleman will bring you a freshly made cappuccino on request), I was a bit taken aback by the abundance of numerals on the small and discreetly positioned price tags.

My mouth went a bit dry when I saw that the sparkling white, Swedish-designed Eton shirt that my fiancée selected for me came in at a cool $215. It didn’t even include the mannequin. When she added a silk tie and handkerchief for another $100, I confess that I began to feel a bit light-headed. The shirt alone was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe at home.

But I soldiered on bravely, until we eventually walked out of the shop loaded down with enough haberdashery to put a radiant smile back on the lovely face of my bride-to-be, as I took her arm in mine and we slowly wound our way home.

Our wedding last month ended up being a great success (from several camera angles) and was everything that we had ever hoped it would be. But as I write this, I know that I will rarely have occasion to wear that stylish a shirt again. For the moment, at least, it hangs at the ready off to one side of my closet — freshly dry-cleaned in its plastic garment bag.

I bought that shirt in the name of love and, in part, to make my wife happy. Looking back now, it also serves as a reminder that — for one brief shining moment of fashion awareness — it made me happy, too. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

Now if I could just get rid of all these darned paparazzi…