November 16, 2005
Tux

Don’t tux me in.  Last Saturday the Grand Junction Musical Arts Association hosted their annual fundraiser at Two Rivers.  This year’s Symphony soiree was themed, “Dance, dance, dance”.  Normally “dance” only has to appear once on an invitation and I’ll develop a hangnail so severe it precludes attending.  But the Symphony gala is a great cause and a fun evening with friends, so one hates to be absent.  Except for the “black tie”.  

Jan asked if I was wearing a tux.  “It’s optional” I replied.  “Well,” came the counter, “The invitation says if you aren’t going in a tuxedo you’re to wear fashions from the 20’s, ‘30’s or ‘40’s.”  “Sounds like my wardrobe,” said I, eliciting the response  “Well both your tuxedo and tux shirt are back from the cleaners,” and in the world of “wifespeak” the case is closed plan on wearing a tux. 

Explain the appeal of a tuxedo?  Some think it makes the wearer look like a big band clarinetist.  To my Dad a tuxedo was a “monkey suit”.  I never had a clue where the term came from but he left no doubt about what was on his mind, saying, “Well your sister’s getting married in Cleveland and I have to wear one of those damn monkeysuits.”  

Like most males, my first tangle with a tux, black tie, cumberbund, cuff links, shirt studs, black calf length socks and pinchy tight patent leather shiny black shoes with the aggravating, skinny hard to tie shoe laces, came as a member of a high school friend’s wedding party. And on that long ago day when it was my turn to promise, “to love, honor and empty the dishwasher,” it seemed that I was marrying the girl of my dreams but would never again be required to don a tux.  Wrong. 

Among myriad subjects never mentioned in pre-marital counseling (i.e.mini-vans, Yanni CD’s and parent/teacher conferences) are “black tie” only fundraisers.  And how blue jeans may adjust to one’s ever-expanding frame through the decades but not a tuxedo. 

It’s a fact of life as male’s age, the  “flat belly” days disappear ever so gradually and six pack abs give way to a pony keg belly.  In the sans a belt world of tuxedo trousers, gravity and a potbelly make for a disastrous combination.  This is particularly true for those of us “gluteus maximus” challenged.  When your tux pants slide with no butt to stop the fall it takes more than a cummerbund to cover up the seismic shift in one’s waistline.  It’s why three hours into the evening you see 55-year-old men in their best bib and tucker dancing on six inches of cuff. 

Then there are tight collared tux shirts.  Not only do they highlight the double chins one normally carries through life, but a tux shirt collar has the magical ability to create even more overlap.  The end result gives the average post 50 tux-wearing male a bulging at the collar skin droop that turns a tom turkey green with envy. 

My wife says to quit making such a fuss.  “Brian Mahoney” she points out, “looks good in a tux.”  “Big deal” I say to myself, ”Brian Mahoney looks good dressed like Jake Plummer.”