...that is the question. We're invited to an opera gala Saturday night. The invitation says Black Tie or Dark Suit.
Mr F's wardrobe decision on this should be a foregone conclusion. He regularly sits around in his undershorts bemoaning the universal drop in dress standards. He's a bow-tie kind of guy, a one-man barricade against the neap tide of baseball caps and baggy cut-offs. So you may imagine my surprise when I found him cowering beneath the mosquito net when he was supposed to be checking whether his tux needed dry-cleaning.

He said he wasn't even sure where his tuxedo was. Well it took all of thirty seconds for me to clear up that little matter.
He said, 'But maybe my summer-weight charcoal would be a better idea.'
At which point I smelled a rat. Why this sudden dragging of feet? Why this outrageous suggestion that he dress down? He knows I love to dress up. I'm a sequins and rhinestones girl. Denim jeans I have never worn in my life. I think they're the ugliest garment in creation. Put me in a T shirt or a sweater and I look like a boiled potato. I think it's because of my vampire pallor. But let darkness fall, allow me to throw on a rope or two of pearls and I'm at my best. Ideally I should just stay in my bathrobe until the cocktail hour.

So I knew what I'd be wearing Saturday night. Then I thought I'd worked out what was bugging Mr F. Fear of Waistband Shrinkage. You know how it can happen. You leave your pants hanging in the closet while you relax in a pair of old slacks and eat a few gallons of icecream. Next think you know your pants upped and shrank.

I said, 'Just try on the damned suit and quit snivelling.'
Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.

This morning he appeared before me. Tux, no shirt, no shoes. A hint of smug frivolity playing around his lips. The suit looked... roomy.
He said, 'I had a feeling I'd lost weight. So which bow tie shall I wear?'
I said, 'You're sure? I don't want you wishing you'd worn the charcoal single vent instead. It could ruin a girl's evening.'
But he was adamant. What a turn around.
Then he said, 'Anyway, Frank's wearing formal.'
And there we have it. His best friend will be wearing his tux so all's well in the world. It wasn't Fear of Waistband Shrinkage at all, but plain old Fear of Being the Lone Tux Wearer.
You guys.