The red carpet

I am disappointed in the supposed stretchy properties of the magic that is polyester.
Stepping into the 4Runner on the way to the 79th Academy Awards ceremony, the nylon zipper of my lime green polyester pants burst open.
“People are going to notice,” I thought.
I searched, in vain, for safety pins (no luck).
“You should have just came as is,” people said.
(Too much information time: I do not own a single pair of undergarments; this is a discussion for later).
I was late. I needed pants.
Passing on the spandex that is my cycling gear, I opted for my suit pants.
Not realizing that when you lose 35 pounds in the last four months, the only thing holding up your drawers is a belt that is on its last hole (and you can pull your drawers down to your knees even when buckled up).
I went with it.
My entourage was a bit smaller than anticipated, since it was cold, windy and I was late (wardrobe malfunction, as it were).
It was still memorable.
About 100 people showed up for the party.
The M.C.s recruited me for security detail. Sure, get he biggest, scariest guy there, wearing polyester and maroon pimp-daddy hat, and you get stuck behind the scenes.
They had an actual Oscar (real weight 8.5 pounds) to hand out to people for the donated awards during commercial breaks (no, I did not get a picture with the actual Oscar, go figure).
Still, it was a blast. People were dressed badly, were dressed to the 9s, it was all good.
I won for Best Supporting Actor. (and won a $50 dinner for two to the new Brazilian steak house in town – the second of my party up for serious contention at this point).
It was a fantabulous evening.
One that will get bigger next year (and I’m glad to have had a hand in its inception).
Polyester pants be damned.