My pants kept falling down the night I met former Senator Al Franken. This has nothing whatsoever to do with scandal. It was my stupid rental tuxedo.
I had recently taken a new job in Washington, DC, and this was my first black-tie event. I went to the tuxedo rental shop in our local mall, proudly located in a “transitional” part of town.
The moment I entered the shop I knew I was out of my element. Every tux in the store looked like it belonged in a Snoop Dog video: pink vests, furry top hats, shiny sequins, ivory-handled canes. Some dudes can pull off such a look. I am not one of them.
The sales person approached. I cut straight to the point. “Do you have any fat white guy tuxedos?” I asked. She looked at me without expression, then replied, “Yeah. We keep one in the back”. She disappeared into the storage room to dust it off.
She emerged with an appropriately boring black tuxedo. The jacket fit my shoulders and chest just right. But the arms were 6 inches too long. She folded the sleeves to the appropriate length. Then she got out a staple gun. Nothing says “class” like the sleeves of your rented tuxedo jacket being staple-gunned into place.
That evening, I went directly from the office to the grand ballroom. This was my first exposure to the strange allure of pomp and power in Washington, DC. My job at the gala was to interact with high worth donors and dignitaries, including Senator Franken. Doing so required only three things: make eye contact, shake hands, keep pants on. Not as easy as it sounds.
With the gala about to begin, I found a bathroom in which to change. That’s when I discovered (a) the accompanying trousers were absolutely cavernous. Truly, the crotch hovered just above my knees, hanging feebly like a sail with no wind. (b) The adjustable waist band on the trousers was broken, and there were no belt loops. And (c) the rental shop had neglected to include suspenders – normally standard with any rented tux.
I had no good options. I emerged from the change room: sharp dressed professional from the waist up, Oompa-Loompa from the waist down.
I circulated through the ballroom, gladhanding with donors and colleagues. As I did, I was obliged to keep my hand in my front pocket at all times. The only way to keep my pants up was to hold tightly to a gathered wad of surplus fabric in my balled fist. If, even for an instant, I absentmindedly reached for a glass of wine, my pants began to slide rapidly to the floor. It was a stressful evening with many close calls. But I managed to “pull it off” (I couldn’t resist).
At the conclusion of the evening our boss gathered the staff. She warmly praised our collective work. She reached out to offer me a congratulatory hug, to which I naturally responded. Terrible idea.
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