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Kilty Pleasure

April 26th, 2011 § 26 comments § permalink

Something says to me that I shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as I am.

Lord knows my Daddy is probably rolling over in his grave.  If he was still alive, I doubt he could deal with me wearing anything remotely resembling a dress or skirt.

I bet he’d even scoff at me wearing a towel around my waist after a shower.

He never did.

Wear a towel, that is.

He always tromped from the bathroom to his bedroom with his towel around his neck, catching the drip of his wet hair.

Maybe that’s where I got my tendency towards being nekkid.   I just grew up with it seeming natural.

But a kilt?

He wouldn’t find much natural in that.

Even with the Scots-Irish part of my heritage coming from his side.1

But, my Daddy is dead.  Besides, I’m my own man.

So, I ordered one.

A kilt.

From Scotland.

And after about 12 weeks wait, it finally arrived.

My kilt.

Authentic from Scotland.

The tartan is called Black Watch.  It’s technically not the correct one for the clan2 that my family name is associated with.  But except for one minor detail the plaids are very similar.  Essentially the same.  I wanted to try out the whole idea of wearing a kilt before I invest3  in a custom made one, and I found a Black Watch readily available at a reasonable cost.

And I love it.

Although I admit it took a little getting used to the visual in the mirror4, there is a certain manliness to the feel of wearing a kilt.

I can’t explain it, really.  There’s just something about walking around open-legged and swinging free, ready to do whatever needs to be done.

No zippers.  No packing and unpacking.

Just you, the soft brush of fabric, and a standing invitation to catch the breeze.

I can’t believe more societies didn’t  take to wearing them them.  Or that they are not as common among Scots as they used to be.  Why women ever switched over to pants when they could have this kind of freedom blows my mind a little.

Speaking of blowing minds, I sprung the kilt on The Attorney on Easter Sunday.  I changed into it and then called him to the stairs, where I was waiting at the top like I was Rob Roy standing on the hillside.  I doubt it was the picture I had in my head, but if his momentary silence wasn’t from his mind being blown, it was at least from curiosity.

“What is this all about?” he asked me.

I told him how I’d being wanting to get a kilt for a while and he at least responded in a positive way.

“I think it kind of works on you.”

Then he asked the age old question.

“What are you wearing under there?”

“Just your lips,” I snarled, in my best Braveheart imitation.5

My response was a take on a joke I heard a long time ago where a man asked a Scotsman what he is wearing under his kilt, and the Scotsman replied back, “Your wife’s lipstick!”

I think that may be what planted the seed for my Kilty Pleasure.

{ fin }

  1. along with a little bit of Cherokee. Which makes me wonder what his opinion would be on a loincloth. []
  2. Lamont []
  3. Hundreds of dollars. []
  4. If nothing else, my fears of looking like a Brittney Spears in the “Hit Me Baby One More Time” video were calmed. []
  5. Which is pretty bad. []

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