Last week, I shared an elevator with a Russian man who was wearing a pink pullover and pink pants. We shared the elevator going down and I went to see if I couldn’t find a place where I could buy chips and a Coke, he to see if he couldn’t own the dance floor at the Piano Bar in the lobby.

He was successful. I wasn’t.

It takes a big man to pull off the full-pink outfit. I am not that man. Sure, I can do the old different-color-shoes stunt, and wear a cute, old hat every now and then, but that’s where I stop. I know my limits.

A few, let’s say seven, years ago, Wife and I were invited to a farewell party of a colleague who was moving to Australia, I think. She was a nice girl, funny, witty – and a feminist. And when we showed up at the party, her husband opened the door in a black skirt.

He, too, was a feminist.

There have been several attempts to make the man-skirt and the man-leggings cool. The arguments are always rational – “a skirt is so airy down there”, “nothing better on a summer day” – but it’s not the brain that makes those decisions, is it?

Today, the Family made a trip to the hardware store. After all, it is Mothers Day in Sweden. We walked around, Son and Daughter hid in the shower cabins, I was pretending to look for them, and Wife went to find the brushes we really needed.

And then we saw the man with the oversized jacket, the green socks pulled up to his knee – and the kilt. Wife made the international “did you see that” signal with her eyes – opening them wide open – to which I replied with the international “oh yeah” signal.

The kilt is probably the least surprising man-dress, but even that was surprising. Especially since it’s not the 16th century anymore. But even 21st century Scots have to go to the hardware store every now and then. Fortunately, he’d left the bagpipe in the car.