When I decided to become a professional speaker, I had to address an issue: what to wear. Some people can get away with the “rumpled professor” look, but that was not for me. I’d spent too many years as a musician, wearing a tux or tails every night, to feel comfortable performing in casual attire. Besides, professional speaking is a little like bullfighting. One should feel confident. Feeling good about how one looks is a big part of that.

My preexisting collection of ragtag suits was not up to the task, so I popped over to the men’s department at Bloomingdale’s and said, “Okay… I want something sharp.”
They had just the thing: beautiful suits, shirts, and ties, all Italian. I figured out how some got the brand name. At the end of the transaction, the salesperson said, “Well, it was your money, but now it’s all Armani.”

So far, so good. But now that I’ve invested in these spectacular duds, I never cease to be amazed at the number of saboteurs in the events world that seem intent upon messing up my suit.

The first thing trying to ruin my suit: nametags.

Some nametags are benign enough, but many are designed with a spring-loaded, kung-fu death-grip, interlocking cobalt steel clamp, which is apparently designed to attack fabric and cut it, stretch it, or put a permanent crease in it.

Those are bad enough, and then sometimes, one gets the crack-and-peel adhesive labels. Again, some of these are very benign (in which case they’ll inevitably fall off within ten minutes), but others are designed to adhere permanently. When my dry cleaner sees that stuff, he gives me “the look.”

In case you’re interested in the ideal nametag solution, I recently appeared at an event where the planner supplied nametags held on by magnets. Super strong, yet totally flat, and no sharp edges, so no damage to one’s front pocket. I could have kissed that planner.

The next threat to my new suit: wireless lavalier microphones… or, perhaps I should say, the razor-sharp, piranha-esque teeth that form their clips.

Granted, one doesn’t want the microphone falling off. But I was planning on wearing this suit more than once, and it’s hard to do that once one has ripped a gash in the lapel. This chronic issue has taught me to bring gaffer’s tape to wrap around the teeth of the clip, thereby lessening its ability to rend and tear delicate silk fibers.

One might think it would end there, but it doesn’t. Some airlines don’t have suit hangers anymore, so despite my best efforts, I sometimes unpack a wrinkled suit and have to put in a massive hotel-room effort to steam the wrinkles out. Worse, even in the best hotels, the irons are usually clogged with rust-laden starch residue, and - Murphy’s Law being what it is - when ironing my shirt, the rust always comes off on the front of my collar. I’ve learned to clean the hotel-room iron before using it, ask the front desk for a brand-new one, or just bring my own.

So, having been through all that, the big day arrives. So I am at your event, and we have all sat down to dinner. I’ve managed to keep my suit clean, pressed, un-torn, and free of rust stains and adhesive residue. I don’t have to speak until after dinner, so I can finally relax and enjoy the meal you’ve provided before standing up in front of several hundred of your guests to give an entertaining talk.

Then there’s the menu: a choice of spaghetti, spare ribs, or in-shell crab claws, with complimentary red wine.

Hey, what could possibly go wrong?

Justin Locke is a speaker. He likes to share hilarious “behind-the-scenes” stories of his many years of playing the bass with the Boston Pops and unique insight into the management tricks of the many famous conductors he’s played for. He is the author of Real Men Don’t Rehearse (a humorous musical memoir) and Principles of Applied Stupidity (a look at unconventional wisdom in management). For more information, visit his website at www.justinlocke.com or his blog at justinlocke.typepad.com.