Is it nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of the 16th Century?

Lori & Merlin

This weekend I’ll be rising to a new level of nerdishness. Oh, I suppose I’ve always been a little nerdy; I mean, I know the “T” in James T. Kirk stands for “Tiberius.” I once stayed up all night playing Dungeons and Dragons. I own a T-shirt with Carl Sagan’s face on it.

Nerd stuff, without a doubt.

But this weekend, I’ll be descending a rabbit hole into a world of dorkishness unparalleled by any I’ve visited previously. I’m talking about that touchstone of doofdom, the epitome of geekishness, the holy Mecca of dweebism everywhere and the only thing nerdier than a Star Trek convention: I’m going to a Renaissance fair.

That’s right; grown men in tights rattling off interjections like “Forsooth!” and “Prithee!” and “Wouldst thou holdest mine lance whilst I visit yon Port-o-Potty?”

My teeth hurt just thinking about it.

So why am I going? Let me put this question to you: Why does an otherwise reasonable man do anything he would never, left to his own devices, do? In fact, why does a man do anything other than fish, drink beer and lay around in a hammock?

The answer is obvious and as old as the reason for Adam’s eviction from his cushy pad in the Garden of Eden: a woman.

My new sweetie, it turns out, loves loves loves Renaissance fairs. I’ve tried to put her in touch with various self-help groups that exist to assist people with this problem, but she refuses even to acknowledge her bizarre addiction.

Last night she showed me the many period outfits she has worn to Renaissance fairs in years past. These are not off-the-shelf “hot wench” Halloween costumes. In addition to her many other talents, Lori is a master seamstress and her 16th Century garb is as good or better than anything you’re likely to see on a BBC biopic detailing the life of Leonardo da Vinci.

She takes this Renaissance nonsense seriously, man! I have little doubt that, were time travel available, she’d be living back there right now.

All my rational discourse falls on deaf ears: “They had no cable TV!” I say.  “They had no toothpaste, no toilet paper! No electric sewing machines with which to create Renaissance festival costumes. Come to think of it, they had no Renaissance festivals at all (which may be the best thing you can say about the era).”

But Lori won’t listen.

So we’re going. To make matters worse, last night she took my measurements for a costume of my own. A shirt. Or to stick with Renaissance authenticity and all that, a jerkin. I know I’ll feel like a jerk in it, but as a man, I’m required to do all sorts of ridiculous things in the name of love.

In the words of Shakespeare (who had to endure the Renaissance the first time around), “There’s the rub.”

The Bard was talking about death; all I have to endure is an afternoon with men in tights. Ah, I guess it won’t kill me.

Forsooth.