WIth the dawn of Opening Day comes the desire for new adventures. This year’s Opening Day is hanging by a thread of sanity: Some have no hope for the team… some are avoiding the team… some want to attend the game but are afraid to do so… some will be there despite the frigid forecast.
I suppose the important thing in this town is knowing that at least the option exists. It’s there if we want it, which is more than we had a month ago at this time. We’ve been cooped up for weeks of winter plus a year, and there’s no telling how the jailbreaks will go.
For example, my husband, who never buys anything, has purchased a tactical kilt, because a normal person would never have married me. This is the same person who continued driving a fifth-hand used van long after its odometer quit working because “I can tell my speed by how fast the ground is going by.” He anxiously tracked his kilt’s progress through the supply chain and texted me when it arrived, that I might immediately retrieve it from the porch, protecting it from marauding kilt thieves.
It brought him great happiness for perhaps five minutes, for he soon realized that he had no idea what a discerning 1/3 Scottish gentleman wears with a kilt when he can pretty much see Kentucky from his house.
All the photos from the tactical kilt catalog suggested slung Chewbacca-style ammo belts, but Josh The Pilot doesn’t have one of those. He thought neither a tee shirt or a polo shirt would show the kilt to its best tactical advantage.
Thus my husband found himself introduced to one of the greatest persisting problems of womanhood: Finding one must-have article of clothing, then suddenly realizing, with a mix of horror and joy, that there’s nothing in the whole house that works with it, and the new item of clothing now requires not only a few new friends here and there, but an entire fresh family of an outfit to keep it company in the closet.
“I think you need a gherkin,” I said.
“A gherkin. You know, like one of those shirts that’s open at the neck? And it has like those leather laces?”
“Can I wear boots with that? I have boots, but I don’t know if they’re worthy of my kilt.”
So I offered to ask my best friend, who lived in Scotland for a few years, what was considered acceptable wear for a tactical kilt. She was in our wedding, and brought her then-baby to the ceremony in a wee little kilt. The baby wore a onsie with his kilt, but I figured this suggestion would go over about as well as tee shirt.
“Can Josh wear a gherkin with a tactical kilt?” I asked.
“Because it’s a tactical kilt?”
“Because a gherkin is a pickle,” she said. “You mean a ghillie shirt.”
“This is why it’s best that you’ve reproduced and I haven’t.”
“Why does he need a tactical kilt anyway? You live in a city built by Germans. Where’s he going to wear it?”
“Frack if I know. Anywhere feels he needs extra ventilation, I guess.”
As I made my way home from errands, carrying this important intelligence with me, I received a text from the now-reinvigorated owner of the kilt, who had moved on to other very important kilt-related activities:
As it happened, “practicing wearing my kilt” involved sitting on the couch while playing X-Box.
“I love my kilt,” he greeted me, murdering an entire digital civilization of aliens.
“Where are you going to wear that thing?” I asked, hanging up my purse.
“I haven’t decided.”
“But you know you have it, if you need it,” I said.
“That’s right.” He pointed to his waist. “See, it has cargo pockets and D-rings on the belt loops.”
“I’m very happy for you.”