What an interesting coincidence that only days after publishing her essay on sumptuary laws, Jolique encountered the following admonition at the entrance to a golf clubhouse she wished to patronize:

Proper Attire Required!

No Tank Tops
No T-shirts
No blue jeans
No Visors
No Flip-flops
No Bathing Suits
And Absolutely....No Green Eyeglasses!

Banned from the establishment because of her sartorial sins, Jolique peered longingly into the glass-enclosed clubhouse and gazed at the appropriately-attired guests in their green golfing shorts, white and blue tennis skirts, pink polo shirts and Tretorn tennis shoes. As her breath on the window formed a halo of condensation around her ill-dressed body, Jolique felt a gentle tug at her arm. She turned to find a security guard, pulling her away from the window while nodding sympathetically to her pleading cries.

"But wait! My family is in there! Why can't I join them?" Jolique turned to the guard and her newly-purchased golf bag slipped off her shoulder and onto the ground, rattling the 5-irons and putters within.

"Sure they are, sugar. Why don't you just mosey on home, now."

"But they are! I can see them from here! See that lady over there...the one wearing the hat with cherries on it, sipping the G&T? That's my Aunt Daisy!"

"OK, sweetie, that's enough. Let's go," the guard said, his grasp on Jolique's forearm a little firmer now.

"But...but!"

"So long now!" he said, waving her off the impeccably-manicured green.

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