One amazing hanger holds my tuxedo.
One clever little 5 ounce piece of plastic and metal conformed into the shape of a bony set of shoulders carries the slim weight of my most formal outfit. It hangs proudly draped in shiny black, pretending to be me when I myself don't don the suit.

Once my affair is over I replace the material to its home. Dressing the hanger as I did myself. Pants first, folded width wise over the pleated front then length wise over the bar that so nicely holds them. Then the shirt fronted with a dozen or more ruffles goes upon the plastic-ly skeletal shoulders. Around the shepherds hook goes the cummerbund and bowtie, both relaxed as if ready to take some time off. Finally the form fitted jacket falls delicately into place, like a foot into a sock. It knows where it belongs, always the exterior, protecting the snow white shirt it envelops. Now the entirety of the contents of the hanger slip inside the black plastic body bag intended to hold such articles. Then as if a corpse, it hangs in my closet until next time.