On this bright and sunny Victoria Day weekend, I felt it was a good day for a walk. Load up a few tunes, and sample the scents that sweet spring air. With the sun beating down, though, it didn't take long before I fled to a convenience store, seeking slushified relief.
Now, I was wearing my kilt yesterday, and although the whole trick of wearing a kilt (actually, the trick of wearing anything is to look like it doesn't matter to you, I couldn't help but be just a bit self-aware. The convenience store was owned by a middle-eastern couple, and the woman always dressed in a hijab headscarf. When I approached the counter with my drink, though, she was all smiles.
"Excuse me, but what do you call that -- that clothing?"
"Oh, it's a kilt." (Also known as a Men's Unbifurcated Garment, but only jerks point that out (Oh, wait. Forget get I said that.).)
"Ah. And how do you spell it?" She wrote it out on a piece of paper. "And where is it from?"
Now, here the story usually goes into me rambling how I'm Low German/Ukrainian by descent, and this particular manufacturer doesn't put any tartans on their kilts to avoid the "Celtic bloodline requirement" that usually accompanies these things, although there's a tartan for each of the Canadian provinces, et cetera... but that's not the sort of conversation one should foist upon strangers. Instead, I just smiled and said, "It's from Scotland. Quite a few men still wear them there, although it's mostly just a matter of tradition. Still, family is family, right?"
And at this, she smiled even more warmly. "Exactly."
Hm. You know, I never thought about it that way.