For me, Pride is all about a mystical convergence of the sublime and the very stupid. My friend Morgan and I had a tradition of marching in the Pride Parade with one of the floats because we like throwing beads at people. But last year, we had to skip it so we could host an outdoor burlesque show at the Church and Wellesley stage.
The theme was “circus,” so she was the Bearded Lady (complete with perpetually growing beard) and I was the Ring-Master, which involved an outfit consisting of Converse high-tops, gold lamé leggings, suspenders, a high school marching band jacket, a monocle, and a party favour top hat that stayed on my head for maybe 30 seconds. Note that the outfit did not involve a shirt. Since Pride is Pride, I figured I’d better hit the gym a few times before the big day, and I was quite pleased to have whipped my torso into a relatively-inoffensive shape.
That morning, we met with the troupe at a loft downtown for a dress rehearsal, which went very well, and the consensus was that we should all get burritos for lunch before the big show. I don’t know what we were thinking. My poor little tummy bloated in a way I did not think humanly possible. Of course, none of that mattered when Morgan and I were lifted into the air on the arms of half a dozen scantily-clad hunks while a crowd of a thousand people cheered and clapped. I was filled to the brim with excitement, joy, love, and, well, pride. Then I saw the photos from the show on Facebook the next day, which mostly let you know that I was filled to the brim with burrito. So, I’m not sure whether that’s a profound experience wrapped in a shallow epiphany or the other way around, but I think it was a sublime, stupid, perfect Pride moment. But this year, I’m ordering a salad.