I think it's time to address this vexed question directly on this sunny Saturday morning, without obfuscation or coded language. I shall be descending upon the Conservative Party convention in Winnipeg this Fall (having just received word that I've been accredited as a blogger there). But anxiety has struck.
What shall I wear?
I pitched my three-piece blue pinstripe yonks ago. Marianne couldn't abide that sort of thing, and besides, it seemed to have shrunk as the years passed. I gave up wearing ties even before that. It's been a matter of pride for me that I haven't worn one for nearly two decades. I wear boots, but more biker than cowboy. An earring. And a battered hat of kangaroo leather, from the skin of a real kangaroo, not a sun-tanned Guantanamo Military Commissioner. (Too bad, in a way, since the latter would probably last longer.)
I don't want to be forced to blend in, renouncing my self-imposed ban on suits and ties. In any case, I don't do mimicry, not out of principle but out of inability. A clothes-horse I am not. So, what, then?
Aposematism seems to be the only way to go. To prevent me from being eaten alive. Don't-mess-with-me leathers. Shades. Fake miltats on both forearms. An affected scowl, which I shall have to practise. An aggressive DFWM swagger.
Perhaps, though, I am foolishly prejudging the whole question of attire. A few weeks back, I was whisked off by an old union brother to the Eastview Legion, and treated to beer that came in quart bottles. As it happened, a new Legion president was being installed. Both the new and the outgoing president, of the male persuasion, wore earrings. And they called each other "Comrade." It was a pleasure to stand up in their honour. I felt right at home.
Remembering that, I realize that I can face Winnipeg and its sartorial dangers after all, without recourse to protective clothing and unDawgly behaviour. I'll just be myself. And come to think of it, that may be all the aposematism I need.
