Kilted... Monday? WARNING: newbie drones on and on

[Taffy Jack]

Three days ago, a big box arrived from the wilds of Pennsylvania. I peered into it, but didn't get much further than trying on my spankin' new masterwork from USA Kilts (hi, Rocky!) before life and its obligations steered my attention away from sartorial concerns.

Fast forward to today, when a healthy snowfall made it apparent that I wasn't going to pick up drywall in our open truck, nor mill any flooring until at least late afternoon due to logistical obstacles. Accordingly, I started dressing for an appointment, then remembered that I had this remarkable wool skirt awaiting my attention...

I probably should have practiced putting it on and getting things straightened up proper-like, but in for a dime, in for a dollar. I scuttled around to clean up a solid pair of work boots (not wearing brogues for standard errands, I don't think), grabbed some old boot socks (informal, eh?), yanked everything into its approximate place, and headed out.

Couldn't find my big, black belt -- the one I've never worn, because it doesn't go through any of my belt loops -- so, now in a bit of a rush, I strapped on an old rigger's belt the approximate color of my shirt. Tried a cotton sweater, and almost dissolved into the snow, so I shucked it and replaced with my mainline work vest and a logger supply cap that (somewhat amusingly) played off the colors of the tartan.

First newb impressions, in no particular order: darned comfortable and plenty warm for high 30s-low 40s weather.

"Wool itch" isn't a bother with this nice worsted fabric.

Hardest thing to adjust to is getting into a car. Otherwise -- provided I wear a vest with wallet and phone pockets, as has been my habit for about 20 years -- this kilt is every bit as convenient as pants, and markedly more comfortable. Don't know about in summer, of course.

Walking is actively fun in this outfit. Not sure why. Could have to do with celebrating the continued attachment of my legs, a privilege not still enjoyed by all my comrades from various endeavors along the way. I've always liked walking in boots, anyway.

Weight: I believe this is what you folks call a "tank," but it didn't feel that heavy to me so I weighed myself holding my kilt and then holding a pair of work jeans with a belt and Leatherman (standard accouterments for me). The result, on a digital scale, was identical. The sporran adds a bit, of course.

Straps are wicked stiff. I'll dope 'em with a bit of sheep fat; it's rainy here, anyway.

The drumming of the bulbed sporran tassels kept making me think some lady was rushing up behind me in high heels. Not sure I'll adapt quickly to that; tactically unsound, I say! Will probably be slowly shopping for a soft brown day sporran to go with my good solid "waffle stompers."

I've never worn a kilt before today, anywhere or for any reason. One reason for that is that I ain't Scottish, not a lick. The army was gracious enough to give me a martial connection, I suppose. I expected to feel rather nervous about it, but the dang thing felt natural the first time I wrapped it on. There's something that happens when you dress in a way that stands out, though. It's a feeling I remember from putting on a dress uniform, which always stands out among civilians: you have to "represent." Not sure what I'm representing in a kilt, exactly -- it's not my tradition, and I can claim no ownership -- but the same reaction instantly applied: I stood up a bit straighter, sucked in my gut a bit more, opened my chest and strode with purpose. Curious, that.

Seattle is a rather tolerant environment in most neighborhoods. One of those neighborhoods is decidedly not the VA hospital, where I was headed for a pain clinic (in for a dime...). First comment upon entry was a laconic, "Nice dress." The only proper answer to which, near as I could tell, was a smiled, "Thanks!"

Next comment came from a gent around 65-70 in the parking garage, who pulled alongside as I was walking back to my car. Couldn't hear what he said when he rolled down his window, so I leaned down and inquired. "I said, 'Is that Black Watch?'"

"It's U.S. Army, actually."

He grinned. "Looks good. Is there one for the Marines?"

"You betcha, sir."

It "snailed" (snowed and hailed) all the way home, and a semi-truck hauling propane had flipped on I5, so it was a long enough crawl (i.e. three hours) that I got off the road and stopped for a bathroom & shopping break at the hardware store where I once worked. Nobody commented on attire; the place is filled with plaid work shirts, and is frankly every bit as weird as I'll ever be, no matter my ambitions.

After having it on for about nine hours, I was in no hurry to dress down. I think you folks may be onto something.

Many thanks to many who've provided help and guidance in this procurement, most particularly Steve and Rocky.

And happy Monday.