WITH the beginning of the opening day comes the desire for new adventures. This year’s opening day hangs on a sensible thread: Some have no hope for the team … some avoid the team … some will participate in the game, but are afraid to do so … some will be there despite the lush forecast .
I guess the most important thing in this city is to know that at least the alternative exists. It’s there if we want it, which’s more than we had a month ago at this point. We have been cooped up for several weeks of winter more a year, and no one knows how the prison breaks will go.
For example, my husband, who never buys anything, bought a tactical source, because a normal person would never marry me. This is the same person who continued to drive a used van with a fifth hand long after the odometer stopped working because “I can tell my speed how fast the ground is going.” He anxiously followed the progress of the kilt through the supply chain and sent me an SMS when it arrived so that I could immediately pick it up from the porch and protect it from harassing kilt thieves.
It gave him great happiness for maybe five minutes, for he soon realized that he had no idea what a discerning 1/3 Scottish gentleman wears a spring when he can mostly see Kentucky from his house.
All the pictures from the tactical kilt catalog suggested slang Chewbacca-style ammunition belts, but Josh The Pilot does not have one of them. He thought neither a tee shirt nor a polo shirt would show the kilt to its best tactical advantage.
Thus, my husband found himself introduced to one of the biggest persistent female problems: Finding a garment that you must have, only to suddenly realize with a mixture of fear and joy that there is nothing in the whole house that works with the new garment now requires not just a few new friends here and there, but a whole fresh family of outfits to keep that company in the closet.
“I think you need a cucumber,” I said.
“A cucumber. Do you know, as one of the shirts that are open at the neck? And it has like the leather laces? ”
“Can I wear boots with it? I have boots, but I do not know if they are worth 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 source. She was at our wedding and took the then baby to the ceremony in a tiny little spring. The baby was wearing an onsie with the kilt, but I figured this suggestion would go over as well as the tee shirt.
“Can Josh wear a cucumber with a tactical source?” I asked.
“Because it’s a tactical source?”
“Because a cucumber is a pickle,” she said. “You mean one ghillie shirt.”
“This is why it’s best that you have reproduced, and I have not.”
“Why does he need a tactical source anyway? You live in a city built by Germans. Where should he wear it? ”
“Frack if I know. Anywhere he feels he needs extra ventilation, I guess. ”
When I returned home from business and carried this important intelligence with me, I received a text from the now encouraged owner of the kilt, who had moved on to other very important kilt-related activities:
While that was going on, sitting on the couch while I was playing X-Box meant “training my kilt”.
“I love my kilt,” he greeted me, killing an entire digital civilization of aliens.
“Where are you going to wear that thing?” I asked as I hung the bag.
“I have not decided.”
“But you know you have it, if you need it,” I said.
“That is correct.” He pointed to life. “Look, it has cargo pockets and D-rings on the belt loops. ”
“I’m very happy for you.”