My husband is an Elvis tribute artist.
I would have thought this was obvious. I mean, have you seen his sideburns? Anyway, hopefully now all my ramblings about him looking better than me in a jumpsuit make sense and why it was so significant that I named our Elf on the Shelf “Elfis”.
Elvis fans are passionate to say the least. If you’re not familiar, their enthusiasm rivals the fervor with which Green Bay Packers fans love their quarterbacks and makes the weird obsession I had with milk mustache advertisements in the 90’s looks like child’s play. And just so we’re clear, I was OBSESSED with milk mustache ads. I would buy entire magazines just so I could rip out the one page picturing Jonathan Taylor Thomas with white residue on his upper lip and tack it on my bedroom wall. When I eventually I ran out of wall space I carefully placed my collection in plastic sheet protectors and snapped them into my Lisa Frank trapper keeper. I realize now that this all bordered on unhealthy behavior. And let’s not forget I casually dated a milk mustache model. Of course this was in fifth grade and before the “Got Milk” campaign started enlisting celebrities as their spokespeople but you try telling that to a milk mustache fan girl. Now that I have you all concerned with my mental health, more so than you were before, I’m afraid that what I’m about say will be met with some backlash.
I never paid much attention to Elvis. (Other than the fact that I had the Elvis impersonator milk mustache ad of course.) Excuse me while I duck for cover.
In third grade I performed my first competition dance to “Jailhouse Rock” and at that point in my life I’m not entirely sure I even knew who sang it. I wouldn’t rock the jailhouse again until last year when dancing on stage with no less than a half-a-dozen different Elvi and I still only know every fifth word when it comes to the lyrics. (Side note: If Elvi isn’t the actual pluralization of Elvis, then it should be; sounds a helluva a lot better than Elvisesuses.)
Fast forward past Travis and I exchanging “I do’s” and my life is now saturated with all things Elvis. Bedazzled jumpsuits take up as much room in our bedroom as our actual bed. There are bobble heads under the TV. Rinn shares a closet with a large assortment of fancy belts, heeled boots and silk scarves. And I’ll probably never have to worry about running out of black eyeliner ever again. Obviously it was only a matter of time before Rinn and I would experience our first Elvis festival; yes, there are such things.
I prepared myself for something resembling ComiCon and while there was a handful of attendees dressed in their finest jumpsuits, it was more akin to a kids dance competition. If dance competitions only used Elvis tunes and all the competitors were grown men. There was hairspray and rhinestones and more lycra that you can shake your hips at. The music was loud and the throngs of screaming women, well they’re at a decibel not yet defined. I hate to admit it but I wasn’t exactly out of my element. The only alarming part of the whole weekend was a young boy dressed in a jumpsuit who decided to glue what appeared to be a faux fur area rug to his chest in a terrible attempt to emulate Elvis’s chest hair. Apparently children with chest hair gives me the heebie jeebies. Who knew? If there are others out there like myself, I am open to starting a support group.
Also an older woman insinuated that she would consider abducting my child if it meant that my husband would come to her house to retrieve him. I laughed awkwardly, hoping she was joking when she said “anything to get him there” but just in case I’ve also looked into the legality of having your loved ones microchipped. In retrospect this shouldn’t have surprised me since Rinn has started to develop a fan club of his very own. Judging by my Facebook newsfeed, I would be hard pressed to tell you who was a bigger hit last weekend; Travis or Rinn. I’ve started to toss around the idea of marketing them as a package deal for future engagements; Travis as the actual talent and Rinn as the hype man. Message me for rates and inquiries.
All in all, the weekend was less scary than I anticipated. I spent most of it eagerly expressing my gratitude in response to comments about how Rinn is so handsome, my family is so beautiful and how marriage is a good look on my husband because they have never seen him so full of life and happy. I typically fail miserably at accepting compliments but those are ones I could get used to.