I've never been a tuxedo kind of guys. Here's why.
I watched the White House Correspondents' Association dinner-roast on CNN last Saturday night, Barack Obama's farewell half-hour appearance as a stand-up comedian, and my mind drifted to the one year I attended the fete, tuxless, it turned out, when Jimmy Carter was in office.
I was managing editor of a rival South Jersey Times newspaper at the time and the paper had tickets to the event even though we had no reporter working the White House beat on a regular basis. I volunteered to go, rented a tuxedo, hopped aboard an Amtrak, checked in at the Hilton, ordered some snacks via room service, and lay down for a nap before the 5:30 p.m. pre-dinner festivities. Good thing the paper was paying the freight.
Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? But since I was involved, turned out it was anything but simple. Not with a tuxedo involved.
I got an afternoon wake-up call at 4:30, figuring an hour was plenty of dress-up preparation time.
It occurred to me that I'd rented the tux without trying it on first. Not too smart, eh? I managed to squeeze into my pants, uncomfortably, and figured out how to work the suspenders. Hey, 2-for-2 is a pretty good batting average, isn't it?
But my tux shirt proved to be somewhat of a problem. I could not button the top button no matter how hard I tried. In a fitful panic, I sucked in my tummy and momentarily was successful, until exhaling and dislodging the popped button across the room.
I checked the shirt size for the first time, 15 1/2. At the time, I took a 17 1/2. A snug fit, to say the least.
What to do?
First I called the hotel's tux rental shop and laughingly, sort of, explained my dilemma.
"Sorry, sir," the woman said. "It's almost 5. We close at 4. Funny, we've had two other panic calls like yours.
"The closest we are to another tux rental shop is five blocks east. You could try there. Have a nice day."
I donned my civilian clothes in record time and hot-footed it five blocks to the rental store.
A man was locking the door. It was a quarter past 5. I explained my predicament again. He sounded sympathetic.
"If we can do this in five minutes, you're OK," he said reassuringly.
But that news was much too good to be true. I tried on a half-dozen tux shirts. None of them fit.
I hurried back to the Hilton, thinking of ways I could attend the dinner and other activities in everyday clothing.
Either I was deliberately assigned to table Z or no one cared how I dressed, because no one said a word to me about my less-than-formal garb all night, not even at the cocktail party.
Even Jimmy Carter didn't notice.
I've always hated tuxedos.
Bob Shryock may be reached at bshryock@njadvancemedia.com. Find NJ.com on Facebook.