Yesterday I discovered a new phenomenon. Or at least I named it.
For roughly 12 hours straight, I’d been suited up in my black Joseph Abboud tuxedo, feeling like I was running a low-grade fever. My house, as I’ve mentioned, doesn’t get as cool as my wife would like it to, so by the time I’d arrived home from work and helped prepare dinner and shuttled the sprinklers around the backyard in an effort to keep everything from turning brown, I was good and ready to shed the formal wear by 8:45, the appointed time at which I am allowed to go casual. Also, I was sweating. Not a dripping sweat. Just the kind of persistent, irritating perspiration that creates a moist sheen under one’s Hanes.
I was in the bedroom, disrobing, when my son called from the living room, “Dad! You gotta come watch this!” Nelly Cruz had just hit a solo home run in the fourth inning to tie up the game at 7 against the Angels. I was unbuttoning my dress shirt as I entered the room to watch the replay. I stepped into a stream of cold air pouring out of an AC vent mounted high on a wall. The zephyr hit my damp undershirt just as Cruz cranked his long ball over the wall. And at that point — right then — my flesh tingled and a shudder of sweet release shot through my body.
That, friends, is something I call a tuxedogasm.
Actually, I called it a “tuxedorgasm” on Twitter, and Zac suggested I drop the “r.” Zac is a wise man — and not just because he wore shorts today to work. I immediately bought the URL for tuxedogasm.com. My team of Indian programmers is right now updating the site and adding new content. I invite you to visit tuxedogasm.com with one warning: you might just find yourself wiling away many hours there when you ought to be working. It is, as they say, very sticky.