A couple weeks ago a flyer arrived in the mail from Men’s Wearhouse. Some deal on wedding tuxedo rentals.

The punchline? It was addressed to me.

“This Valentine’s Day, Men’s Wearhouse cordially invites your groom* to take advantage of a one-of-a-kind offer he’s sure to love!” the inside copy shouted at me gaily.

It was marketed to me. Like I am in charge of getting my partner dressed for the wedding.

I understand why this is the way it is. I understand that at some point everybody agreed that men couldn’t care less about getting married, and they cannot be trusted to with any of the details. So Men’s Wearhouse mails its promotional material to women, because then at least it has a chance of being read instead of getting lost at the bottom of a pile of old pizza boxes and unwashed socks. Or however these hypothetical menfolk live.** In fact, they probably haven’t taken those pizza boxes out to the trash yet because they’re too busy hiding in terror from their fiancées, who are stalking around the house screeching about how they better get over to the store right this very second to pick out matching TUXES AND SUITS AND TIES, OH MY.

I understand that, but I don’t get it. Yes, the beau and I will talk about what we’re both wearing for the wedding, and he’ll ask me for advice, and I’ll seek out his reaction, and I imagine we’ll make a joint decision on, say, what color of tie the groomsmen will wear. But dude: his clothes, his problem.

Then again, maybe Men’s Wearhouse was right after all. Maybe I am the one in charge here. Because “my groom” didn’t even get to see that flyer offer.

I threw it out on his behalf.

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* Emphasis mine.

** Heh. I’ll bet they drive Dodge Chargers.