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quislibetNot prompted by anything obvious, I was musing today about being in the SCA, to which organization I have belonged off and on since the 6th grade, although I haven't done anything with it for over 4 years, and even before then I was not terribly active, not since the 6th grade, in fact, when I was a devoted page to His Majesty King Talymar II. But my family dropped out after a year or two when my parents got sick of local imaginary politics, and I didn't get involved again until college.
Anyway. In the course of these generic musings, concerning how it was always something I thought was cool and somehow a part of my life but in which I never really found a "place" enough to stay active for very long at any given time -- I don't even have an Award of Arms, something that would allow me to call myself "Lord Quislibet" (or suchlike) and display the heraldically overwrought device I designed for myself and had approved at age 13, the sort of award you get more or less automatically if you help out and stay active for a couple of years -- in the course, I say, of these musings, the strange and perverse thought came to me suddenly that if one of the women I ogled at the nekkid swimmin' hole at Pennsic XI, my initiation into the mysteries the female form beyond my next-door-neighbor's dad's magazines -- if one of them, I repeat, as this sentence is getting unwieldy, had conceived through design or mead-soaked misfortune a female child that very night, her daughter would, at this year's Pennsic (coming in August), be not only well old enough to ogle without feeling dirty about her age, but also old enough that one could buy her a drink without contravening the law.
That's not my usual way of thinking about the world, I guess, but it's one at which many SCAdians I have known might nod sagaciously. I don't know. The upshot of it, I suppose, is that I felt old this morning.
Anyway. In the course of these generic musings, concerning how it was always something I thought was cool and somehow a part of my life but in which I never really found a "place" enough to stay active for very long at any given time -- I don't even have an Award of Arms, something that would allow me to call myself "Lord Quislibet" (or suchlike) and display the heraldically overwrought device I designed for myself and had approved at age 13, the sort of award you get more or less automatically if you help out and stay active for a couple of years -- in the course, I say, of these musings, the strange and perverse thought came to me suddenly that if one of the women I ogled at the nekkid swimmin' hole at Pennsic XI, my initiation into the mysteries the female form beyond my next-door-neighbor's dad's magazines -- if one of them, I repeat, as this sentence is getting unwieldy, had conceived through design or mead-soaked misfortune a female child that very night, her daughter would, at this year's Pennsic (coming in August), be not only well old enough to ogle without feeling dirty about her age, but also old enough that one could buy her a drink without contravening the law.
That's not my usual way of thinking about the world, I guess, but it's one at which many SCAdians I have known might nod sagaciously. I don't know. The upshot of it, I suppose, is that I felt old this morning.
