Sep 28, 2018 3 min read

Nothing causes me as much anxiety as dressing for a black-tie event. I am just not the evening gown type – not in personality or in makeup application or body type. And I can no longer manage high heels.

I will blame all of this on my left leg which, as I’ve described here more than once, is a bit larger than my right because of lymphedema, a condition that resulted from my cancer surgery and treatment almost 10 years ago. When seen uncovered, my legs look mismatched and lopsided, like a pencil standing next to a Sharpie pen; a piccolo next to a bassoon; a pinkie next to a thumb. But if I wear wide-leg pants, you can’t tell the difference.

Last May, I attended the Golden Quill Awards, the event that honors the best in Pittsburgh journalism. I wore a white jacket and a pair of black pants with the widest legs I could find. As I walked into the room that night, I felt glamorous and comfortable in my swishy new pants.

As the evening wore on, the room grew warmer and I began to perspire. It was there, among my colleagues and the best of Pittsburgh media, that my pants betrayed me.

It turned out the pants were made of some kind of synthetic fabric that, when damp, grows in length and width. Sitting there, nervously waiting for my nominated categories to be called, I could feel my waistband crawling away from my body. Either I was finally getting skinny or these pants were made of amorphous goo.

By the time they were ready to announce the winner of “Best Documentary,” I was dressed like a toothbrush wrapped in a pillow case.

“You have no idea what’s happening inside my pants right now,” I said to Amy, sitting to my right.

My pants were about to swallow my chair. Everything from my waist down to the floor was festooned in black fabric. No way would I be able to legally stand up.

“If they call our name, you have to go up and get the award,” I said to my co-worker Zak, who was sitting to my left.

“Don’t worry,” he said, brushing off my worry. “They won’t call our name.”

Of course they did. Zak rose and reached for me to stand and walk up to the stage with him. I waved him off, mouthing My pants are falling off.

The rest of the table yelled for me to get up, unaware of the horror that lay beneath.

And so with one hand I gathered the three yards of what used to be my waistband, clenched it into a wad, and waddled up to get my major award.

“You take the plaque,” I said to Zak as we walked through the applause. “I’m trying not to moon the crowd.”

In the photos from that night, I’m holding the Golden Quill plaque in front of me, right at my waist. It was hiding the rubber band that I’d used to tie off a balloon of black fabric. By the end of the night, the yardage from my pants could have outfitted an entire convent of nuns.

I have another black-tie event coming up, the Mid-Atlantic Regional Emmy Awards. I’ve ordered about 10 pairs of black pants, hoping to find a pair I can trust to stay with me all night.

Just in case my name is called.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.