Hello, Everyone!
You just never know what’s going to come up, do you?
I got on the train yesterday and went to Dublin. There was a big rugby match on—the Heineken Cup (European Championship) quarter-final between Leinster (from Ireland) and the Cardiff Blues from . . . uh . . . er . . . oh, right, Cardiff in Wales. I’d ordered two tickets on line and got them in the mail, so the deal was that I was going to meet my son, who recently moved to Dublin to take up a job, and we’d see the match.
Naturally, the question arose as to whether I’d be able to do any shopping while I was there. I wasn’t looking for much, just a few odds and ends, but I did want to get them, and I didn’t know if it would be possible. If, e.g., my son was going to meet me at the station, then that would be the end of any shopping since I’m not out to him. I thought about telling him that I’d get on the 11:30 train and then actually get on the 7:30 or 9:30 train, and that way I’d have time to do my shopping. Some people might say that telling a lie is morally wrong, but maybe a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?
As it turned out, he was going to be working all day until 4:30, so I was spared the need to lie. However, I was still limited as to what I could buy. Kickoff was at 5:45, which meant that the last train back would be gone by the time the match was over. So I was planning on spending the night in my son’s flat, and I couldn’t show up there with bags and bags of stuff, since, as I said, I’m not out to him. So I was limited to buying whatever I could hide in the bottom of my knapsack.
Well, I found what I was looking for—nail polish and remover, some hair bands and a necklace that I liked. But inevitably, while I was nosing around, I came across a dress and a skirt that I absolutely had to have. I figured they’d go at the bottom of my bag as well, so no problem, I bought them.
Eventually I headed for the stadium where I met my son, and I still had my bag with me. I could have swung by his flat first to drop it off, but that was a fair bit out of my way, and I didn’t see any need to do that anyway. Until we went through the main gates, and then I saw a need to: some joker was waiting there with a big, cheesy, apologetic grin on his face, asking if he could inspect my bag.
And I said to myself, “This is great! This is wonderful! This clown wants to inspect my bag. No big deal. I’ll just be outed in the middle of 50,000 people.”
I was wondering if he had any legal authority to look in my bag. I figured he probably did. There is a question of security everywhere these days. There were cops around the place if he needed to call on them, but in any case, if I made any fuss at all, he, my son, and everybody else on the spot would be wondering just what I had in my bag that I didn’t want inspected. And then most certainly I would have been back outside the gates again.
I thought about batting my eyelashes at him, as if to say, “Do you think a sweet, little thang like me could be a terrorist?” But I decided against that plan pretty quickly.
So, what to do? What else? I just kept my cool and said, “I came up for the match today. I just brought a change of clothes and a book. (Oh, and I did a bit of shopping this afternoon, and I found a lovely skirt and the most darling dress. Do you want to see them as well?)” It was true that I had a change of clothes and a book—that was the stuff I had at the top of the bag. So I opened the bag and that’s what he saw, and that’s as far as he went. He didn’t go rooting about in the bag. Instead, he apologized for having had to bother me and thanked me profusely for my cooperation. I said, “No problem. (Jerkarooski!)” Huge sigh of relief!
It reminded me of September 11, 2001: my son and I were on holiday in France at the time. A couple of days later we went to a rugby match in Toulouse, and I happened to have a bag with me. They went through that one. I didn’t have any girly stuff in it, though. I was still in denial back then.
Another noteworthy point: I never noticed anything of the sort during my time in the U.S., but in Europe fans often wear all kinds of crazy costumes to rugby and soccer matches—especially if it’s a big match. Yesterday, a lad a few rows below us showed up in pink dress. Everybody was chuckling, of course, but I was looking it over and said to myself, “Damn! I wouldn’t mind trying that one on myself.” It was kind of nice. And then when the game was over and the crowds were pouring back out into the streets, I noticed a few girls wearing moustaches—and they actually looked kind of cute.
So it occurred to me that there’s no reason why I can’t go to a match en femme. No need to try and pass. In fact, it would be better not to. As long as I was dressed in some way that made it clear I was going to the match, I could wear whatever I wanted and nobody would think a thing about it—except perhaps they might be asking, “Aren’t you a bit old for that sort of thing? I mean, pink dresses are for the young lads, aren’t they?” And my son might prefer it if I found someone else to escort me.
At any rate, I made it safely back home with all my purchases, which I’m now enjoying. So all’s well that ends well.
Best wishes, Annabelle
Originally Posted by jessica renee
