A Ninj For All Seasons (David)

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.