Having a well-earned college reputation as a skinflint, I was excited to attend my fraternity reunion wearing my first custom-tailored suit. An hour before the formal affair, I reached into our Charlottesville hotel closet and discovered to my horror I’d left it at our Richmond hotel, 70 miles away.
Rushing to a Salvation Army store, I was crestfallen to find one coat hanging on its measly men’s rack: a used Nordstrom suit. Shockingly, it fit me perfectly.
That evening, I withstood all the familiar ribbing from my more affluent brothers, but this time, at least, I looked sharp.