Long ago I used to volunteer for the Campbell Highland Games.
My friends were the organizers so I naturally gravitated to helping them with the event.
I thought, perhaps wrongly so, that I was of Scottish descent.
Now, 23 & Me has proven me to be Scandinavian (Norwegian), British Isles (so PERHAPS Scottish) and a little bit Portuguese (I have my maternal Grandma to thank for that).
I joke that being mostly Scandinavian and a little Portuguese means I burn easily but I can hold a tan.
The other day, I was emailing a friend and he sent me some photos of him in a kilt.
Lordy, how love a man in a kilt.
I was instantly transported back in time to those Highland games, and to my not one, but TWO trips to Scotland.
Tartan kilts, bottles of scotch, purple heathered mountains, black water (at least in Loch Lomond, it’s black), bagpipes, and fresh raspberries.
I love how kilts represent family.
I love how well they pair with sporrans, hose and jacket.
And as much as I love a lumberjack in a plaid flannel shirt, I ALMOST as equally love a man in a kilt.
Not surprisingly, I have a few friends who wear kilts.
They are burners, naturally.
They don’t wear the tartan variety, mind you.
Just the utili-kilt, lightweight variety kilt.
And still, it has the same funny effect on me.
So whether I’m eating fresh raspberries at a real Highland games in Inverness, or sitting on my bed at home reminiscing, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for men in kilts.
Give me Gerard Butler in a kilt or a man with “Campfire” as his middle name and color me happy.