Those
who know me – ahem (slight cough here) well – are cognizant of my craving for
comfortable clothes. This personal
quirk has, ironically, exposed to me to much painful ridicule by pals appalled
by my love of lounging.
Their
main objection, near as I can tell, is based on aesthetics. As I am the only professional certified
philosopher of the lot, this has left me hurt, confused and slightly miffed. After all, the whole Beauty is Truth
thing was originally the product of philosophy, whatever Keats might claim. I feel a bit like a dancer must when
her walk is being denigrated by a pack of penguins whose notion of bipedal
locomotion is a shuffle punctuated by an occasional (and yes, I must admit it,
fun!) slide on the tummy.
This
current decade alone has seen otherwise pleasant and reasonable women of my
acquaintance raid and reduce the contents of my closet. Patient and well-documented
explanations of the value and vintage of my shirt collection have been
summarily dismissed by patently immaterial opinions. Objections that “xxxl shirts make you look like tent city in
headwind”, or “wide collars and paisley are sooo 1971” and even “there are
holes on the elbows and the collar is frayed through” are not logically
sound. I mean, why would such
subjective notions of suitability carry any water in the mind of a man whose
professional and personal exemplars are renown for discovering universal truths
while toying with the loofah? But
humans are social creatures. I
dress, therefore I am. A. Drab.
But
here in China, things are very different.
This is a society which, when it comes to dressing up, remains unsullied
by the protestant ethic. Less Jean
Paul’s “Hell is other people sneering at my pants” and a lot more Sartorial
splendor. The heady freedom of a fringed
dress shirt! Bold reds! Vibrant
blues! Shimmering gold! And bright, bright yellows! (The latter, I admit, makes me look a bit like Dave the
Minion, but no matter).
And
patterns. Little thin vertical lines, swirls and curves, and tight
precise stitching for no other purpose than to please the eye. After a lifetime of plain pastels and
checks, China is a revelation, a cornucopia of colour, a tempest of texture and
a drawing of delight.
My
latest acquisition is only superficially related to the drab sombre shades of
my adult life. It is, I admit, black, but what a black it is. Images of tar, deep mine shafts, or
starless nights will not do it justice.
Think rather Ninja black.
With dragon pattern. And a
banded collar with frog fasteners down the front. Perfect. Pajamas,
yes, it’s true, but nifty enough to wear to Thanksgiving dinner. Which is exactly what I’m going to do,
unless the brocaded long coat is delivered early.
The
girls will hate it, but this time I know I’m right. Thank you Mr. Liuo.