The tuxedo, part 2

Lawrence Toppman

My father owns two tuxedos, a fat one and a skinnier one. (This is not uncommon for folks whose weight has gone up and down since Truman was president.) He realized that, at 83, he didn't need both of them and mailed me the skinnier one. And I am so close to fitting into both halves.

The shoulders don't cling; the jacket waist doesn't pinch. My butt doesn't emerge from the split back like a manta ray cleaving the waters of a Hawaiian lagoon. (Though it's snugger than I'd like back there.)

The pants? Well, the pants "fit" in the sense of "closing without the prospect of losing snaps or buttons, as long as the wearer doesn't insist on drawing a normal breath." So I'm going to have to drop poundage to get into those.

I know millions of people losing weight do so to climb into unworn clothes, and I have happily spent four decades as an adult with minimal need for a tuxedo. But it's cool to know I could wear it if I felt James Bondish, and I'm determined to fit into it someday. Someday soon.