Fancy Failures Part 1

H is a complete disaster. He’s exhausted. He needs a haircut. He needs to sleep in a bed and not in a fully reclined business class seat. And never mind his physical self. Lordy. When we met he’d recently shaved off some 20kg thanks to some nasty tart who had dumped him for a younger model. Oh well, her loss, my gain. Anyhoo. So he looked pretty good when we hooked up. But between his work schedule and the stress and the airplane food and his absolute love of pork belly, his weight has slowly crept up. And now it’s at a level where is seriously unhealthy. But that’s not the worst of it. No. The worst of it is what had Fancy here lying on the kitchen floor weeping while Nanny #1 and my Fancy PA just looked at each other.

It all started about 2 weeks ago. Fancy PA picked up a pair of H’s trousers and looked at me through the fabric. “What is this?” she cried in horror. “Why is he wearing clothes that are literally falling apart at the seams?”

“He refuses to go shopping or have anything custom made until he loses weight. He says he has a Plan. It’s been about 6 years now and I’m still waiting to see The Plan. But he says he has one,” I replied, with a sort of laughing sadness. “Maybe we could start just cleaning out the items that are really, really bad?” I asked, as she began muttering and cursing while running her fingers through his closet.

“Oh this has to go! And this! And this! No! No! No!” she cried, tossing shirts left and right. (I did mention that she’s also our new stylist, right?)

Then I turned to Fancy Therapist for help. “He dresses like a homeless bum. Seriously, his clothes are literally falling apart. His shirts are all frayed and nothing really fits and it’s sort of bumming me out. I mean, on one hand I feel really bad for him. Not looking good doesn’t help your self-esteem. And on the other, how can he walk into a meeting and convince anyone to give him a billion dollars if he looks like he just left a homeless shelter?”

“Buy him some clothes. Send your assistant out with a credit card and just buy it. Return what doesn’t fit. But don’t let him wiggle out of it,” he said, pulling the cap off his pen to make a note on H’s file. “He’s too successful to walk around looking this way. Don’t give him any choices. Just hang it in his closet. Drop some cash and fix it. Simple.”

A light bulb went off in my Fancy head. Mr. Porter! Of course! I could just order tons of clothes, let him try it all on and send back what doesn’t fit. Perfect. Fancy brilliance at work.

I hit their website and went to town. They seemed to have a really big selection in his size. I couldn’t believe it. And some £4000 later, and after a call to my credit card to confirm that it was indeed me, Fancy, ordering suits and shirts for her Fancy Husband, the packages were on their way.

I must interject here and mention that it seems a major job requirement for the Mr. Porter delivery boys men man-children is that they are hot. Unbelievably good looking. Better than those Abercrombie dorks. Seriously. Anyway, back to my story.

H came home that night and I could barely contain my excitement. I was so anxious for him to walk through the door, to see the beautiful bags with “For Mr. Fancy” written across them in Fancy script. I had visions in my head of him trying everything on and standing in front of the mirror, actually buttoning a suit jacket and seeing himself for the handsome and successful man that he is. I wanted to make him smile with pride and walk into his next meeting standing just a little bit taller. And maybe this little boost would also light a fire under his butt to get on with “The Plan” I’d been waiting on. Just maybe.

But Fancy fucked it up.

Did you know that men’s suit sizes in the UK are the US size PLUS 10? Did you?

He looked at the first suit with a mixture of surprise and interest. “That looks nice. Really nice. Okay, I’ll try. You win.”

Seconds later, as he contorted his body in a futile attempt to squeeze his other arm into a jacket that would go no higher than his elbows, his face fell. “These clothes, these shoppes, they just aren’t a part of my life. That’s just a fact,” he said, throwing himself back onto the sofa.

Fancy’s heart was broken. I tried to do something kind and good and in the process hurt someone’s feelings. That sucks. 

And it explains why the next morning I was sitting on my kitchen floor weeping with virtually no provocation. A quick Internet search revealed that H’s “UK size” is almost impossible to find “off the rack.” It’s not like he’s so fat that people are screaming, “back away from the bacon, dude!” but he’s very tall to begin with. There just isn’t much room to move on what is available in the shoppes.

Worse than that was seeing his face when he asked when Mr. Porter would be bringing the bigger sizes. What was I supposed to say? Mr. Porter suddenly went out of business? I felt wretched. 

No, money can’t solve everything. It can’t make him healthy and thin. But it can fix a lot. So I made a call to my personal shopper in NY. He’s shipping over some clothes that will fit from the great US of A. And Fancy PA called a few of her stylist friends and found some designers that cut up to his size. That will tide us over until I can get the Saville Row guys over here to custom tailor.

And yesterday H got up and went to the gym. Baby steps kids. I'll keep you posted.