If The Clothes Don’t Fit , Why Don’t You Just Quit?

 

    I’m going to do something I haven’t done in a long time, in fact, it’s been years. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not looking forward to it. Apparently, the situation requires it, and I don’t have a choice.

    I’m going to wear a suit and tie.

    We received a last-minute invitation to a hoity-toity charity event that contained two words which chilled me to the bone: “cocktail attire.” So, after about ten years, it’s finally caught up with me: I must don a suit and tie. Until now, I’ve managed to get through funerals and all kinds of social events wearing  a blue blazer, casual  gray slacks, and a polo shirt. Occasionally, I have gotten by with  wearing jeans, a tweed jacket, a black T-shirt, and sneakers - that comedy look. But not this time.

    As a result, I’m scrambling through my closet, digging through old pleated pants and paisley ties like a squirrel searching for a buried acorn.

    When you begin rummaging through old clothes, you quickly discover how much style has passed you by. My tie collection is a good indicator. Neckties are decidedly narrow these days, yet every one I own is so wide it could double as a dinner napkin. And my dress shirts, with their long pointed collars, aren’t exactly gracing the cover of GQ either.

    Then came the saddest part of all, trying on an old suit. My attempt to squeeze into my gray pinstripe was met with firm resistance from the fabric itself. It was a blunt reminder of how much weight I’ve gained since the last time I wore it. The coat was so snug  I felt like the Incredible Hulk before he bursts out of his clothes.  Maybe that’s why he was so angry - his clothes were too tight.  I was a fat man in a little suit. The only thing that could help me get into those pants is several Weight Watchers meetings. I was even afraid to bend over for fear the seat might split open, and that would not be a good look near the charcuterie board.

    When I finally buttoned the top of my dress shirt, it felt like someone was choking me. Then I had to Google “how to tie a tie.” Cowboys used to call hangings “necktie parties”, and I can see why. 

    And my poor feet. For several years they have been languishing in the comfort of cushy sneakers. And now I am slipping them into the discomfort of hard-heeled, leather-soled dress shoes.  When my wife asked me how my feet felt when I put the shoes on, I borrowed a line from my old comedy buddy Killer Beaz, and said, “shocked and surprised.”

    Finally, I stepped in front of the mirror, and there looking back at me stood a 2XL man wearing XL clothes.

There was only one thing to do. We placed an emergency Amazon order: proper-fitting shirts, narrow ties, belts, pants, and jackets. We ordered so much clothing that our bedroom looked like a mini TJ Maxx.

    After more trial and error than I cared to deal with, we finally cobbled together a snug old suit (with pleated pants hidden by the jacket), a shirt that fit, and a belt and tie that didn’t look like they were last worn during the Carter administration. I wasn’t comfortable, but it would get me through the few hours of the charity event.

    Upon our arrival, I was shocked because I was the only person in a suit. Neckties are apparently not necessary to donate or participate in a silent auction.  I was greeted by my friend, wearing a sport coat, casual slacks, and a polo shirt. He shook my hand, smiled, and said, “I should have told you about the dress code. You could have ignored what was on the invitation.”

    I smiled back, and right in front of the charcuterie board, unceremoniously took off my tie, folded it up, and stuffed it in my wife’s purse. Maybe Amazon will give me a refund.

And I’m still going to be extra careful when I bend over.