I love wearing a tux.

And clearly I wear them well (see above).

I’m pretty well convinced that if God had worked on creation one more day, we’d all be born in a tux.

The tie, the cummerbund, the flow of black…it’s all good.

Also, I think I’m at least two inches taller in a tux and I’m real good with being two inches taller.

I move slower in a tux.

I’m more thoughtful.

My vocabulary increases exactly one syllable per word.

I only use fountain pens.

I constantly feel like I should be wearing gloves.

I get to wear cuff links.

I want to break out in irrational song.

Those are the positives.

The negatives?

When I’m in a tux, I wish I smoked cigarettes…foreign cigarettes…in a holder…from an engraved case.

No matter what subject is being discussed, I find my contribution to the discussion is all too often; “Bond…James Bond”. It draws strange looks which I interpret as “awe”.

I want to break out in irrational song.

It’s prom season and we will soon be inundated with pictures of young, hormonally-driven/confused young people in tuxes of a variety of hues that God never intended. I’m OK and entertained by that, but young gents…if a geezer may suggest; bright colors may attract for the evening (and, as I remember the time, nothing else really matters), but black and white, slow and thoughtful, fountain pens and song…these will see you through life.

I love wearing tuxes.