It was quite cold; in fact, my fingers were so cold that I could not unbutton the pockets of my jacket without staring straight at them and trying to coordinate fingers which I could not feel. I was, however, otherwise quite warm--with the exception of my nose--due to a long-sleeved shirt, a short-sleeved shirt and a used BDU jacket, complete with camouflage.
This particular jacket, possibly due to its origins, is not the kind of thing that makes you toasty-warm, but wind, however piercing, does not cut through it and it is practically indestructible. Thus, with a good layer underneath, it is remarkably good for cold weather.
My thoughts, you see, were wholly practical. While I know that in some places (this town not really being one of them, though they have *other* objections to this pattern) camouflage is thought of as being gang-related, I hardly look much like a gangster, especially with my then-freezing-white fingers and young siblings picking up candy. All the same, a strange thing occurred.
I was avoided.
It was painfully obvious, considering these people were offering pamphlets and brochures to anyone with hands, and while being very in-your-face with everyone else, made sure to avoid me as if I had a circle of protection with a three-foot radius around me. I would lie if I said I was not pleased in a way--whenever people hand out brochures and such, I never have anywhere to put them, and usually they are of a matter that is of importance only to about five or six people in the entire city.
All the same, I thought it very queer. (not like that, you genius you) After all, heaven knows that at the Fourth of July parades, in spite of the fact that I'm carrying a hat, a bag and occasionally my sibling's jacket, I am bombarded with advertisements and information packets about Issue No. 32004958305032902359035.
Kids have it off better. We old folk get paper, while *they* get candy!
Regardless, I pondered it a great deal.
Given that we live in Liberalville USA, Land of the Free Because Someone Else Died For It, I wondered if maybe--just maybe--the former history of my jacket bothered them.
Note to Self:
This
is afraid of
This.
2 comments:
Go, Celestine, go! Hoorray! Keep fighting, m'lady - and don't ever give up. Liturgical dancers are no match for chicks dressed in camouflage garb.
Thanks, TH2--I do try to fight for the Church. Except apparently that's not "PC".
Good thing I don't give a crap about what's PC...
And, fortunately, liturgical dancers are a half-remembered distant nightmare at our other local Church. Frightening upon recall, but utterly immaterial.
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