Ere You Left Your Room This Morning...

I've always seen that hymn as a guilt trip or at the very least a gentle reminder. But now I see that it is actually a threat. Let me tell you about my day yesterday.

It actually started late Thursday night when I washed my laundry. I had been procrastinating laundry until the very last possible moment, so basically I had to throw everything I own into the washing machine. About half an hour later, I went downstairs to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer. The basement was flooded. I know that we've had problems with a flooded basement before, but I've never been the one to witness it. I'd blame it on the washing machine, but I've washed clothes in the basement since August and the basement has never flooded.

So I carefully walked around the flooded area and moved my clothes to the dryer.

Yesterday morning, I got up, excited for the possibilities of what I could wear. Basically, I could wear anything because all my clothes would be ready! I went downstairs, opened the dryer, and found out that our dryer was broken. All my clothes were still soaking wet.

This left me with a dilemma. I had nothing to wear. I actually considered skipping my classes or calling in sick to work, but decided that I'd be a trooper and find something to wear.

"Something" turned out to be a work polo shirt, a sweater that my grandma made for my mom in the70s or 80s, and a pair of thick polar fleece pants. And, of course, running shoes. I never wear running shoes unless I'm working out.

When I walked into my first class, a classmate looked up at me and said, "You too? Join the club!" I wasn't sure what club this was. To my knowledge, there was no You Put Everything You Own In The Wash Only To Find Out That Your Dryer Is Broken club. But I soon figured out that she was immediately assuming that I was sick. "Oh, no," I said." I feel fine! I just... all my clothes are in the wash and this was the only thing left to wear."

Inquiries into my health continued during my morning classes:
"How. Are. You. Feeling?" You know---the one with the head tilted and the hand on your arm.
"Feeling any better yet?"

I even got a "You hang in there." You would think that perhaps blood was leaking from my eye sockets, but no, it was simply the clothes that inspired these comments. My hair and makeup were perfect!

When I got home, I had to change out of the polar fleece pants and into a skirt. The rest of the outfit stayed the same (except for a shoe switch). To my horror, I realized that the shirt I was wearing, the only shirt I could wear, smelled like B.O. And there was nothing I could do about it.

While I was at work, Scoop contacted me and informed me that he and Mrs. Scoop would be coming over to my house for dinner half an hour earlier than expected. Though I was thrilled that they were coming over, this half hour made me panic. During the rest of the afternoon, I alternately deluded myself into thinking that I would have time to do everything---including making a trip to the landromat to dry my clothes---and panicked with the knowledge that I wouldn't have time to do everything.

I got home from work and hopped on my bike right away to go and get groceries. Forty-five minutes later, I emerged from the store only to find out that it was raining. Great. My once-perfect hair would now be flattened. And my once-only-dry-clothes-I-had would now be dampened. But what else could I do? I rode my bike home in the rain.

At home, I started throwing the soup together and was panicking about the messy state of my house. I would have to clean really quickly, too, and the soup was taking much longer than the indicated "10 minutes" on the recipe. An hour later, as the soup was boiling, I was able to leave the kitchen to frantically clean the rest of the house. Of course, I started to sweat. Great. So my damp hair and clothes were once again further dampened. And let's not even mention the B.O. again, except that I'm going to have to. I don't get to see Scoop and Mrs. Scoop very often, but I swear, every time I do, I'm covered in sweat or looking otherwise dishevelled and unattractive.

At about 6:30, someone started incessantly knocking at my door. It was DP. As soon as I opened the door, he reached out to hug me. So I partly succumbed to the hug, and he must have noticed some hesitation because he said, "Oh that's right. You don't like hugging. I'm sorry." I just left it at that, not wanting to say, "Actually, I don't want to expose you to my rank body odor right now. Otherwise I'd be perfectly fine hugging you."

Shortly after DP arrived, so did Scoop and Mrs. Scoop. As they put together a salad, I continued working on the gloop---I mean, soup. It was one of those homogenously pureed soups that I thought DP compared to food one would find in an old age home, but apparently he was talking about something else. I can't remember what because I never quite recovered from the comparison of my masterpiece to geriatric food. But as I was reheating it, air pockets started to form at the bottom and bursted to the top, creating splashes. As I was stirring the cauldron, one enormous splash errupted, and I ended with gloop on my stinky shirt, gloop on my face, and gloop in my hair.

Oh, and did I mention that since I worked out the day before, the last time I showered was post-work-out, which was over 24 hours previously at that point, so not only was the shirt nasty, but I was getting continually more nasty-looking during the evening, including the steady increase of the greasiness of my hair?

All in all, it was a delightful evening, though. How can one not have fun in the same room as Scoop, Mrs. Scoop, and DP? I know that DP voiced several gems during the evening, and I'll have to ask Scoop for help in remembering the other quotes, but one of our favorites was, when DP received a bowl of ice cream and was eating it, he said, "This is a great test of the effectiveness of my Sensodine toothpaste!"

Even more precious was about five minutes later when his entire face scrunched up in pain and he said, "I must have missed that spot."

When it was time for company to leave, I was starting to worry about the hugging that generally follows evenings like this. How could I come into close physical contact with anyone, my personal hygiene such as it was? Luckily, DP came to my rescue and said, "I won't hug you this time." When asked why, DP explained that I don't like hugging. Scoop commented that he always gets a hug out of me. DP explained that I simply don't like it. I didn't correct the explanation. I didn't say that I actually was fine with hugging anyone of them. I simply kept my elbow to my hip and waved them goodbye without lifting my arm more than was necessary.

So this morning, I am still sitting in my own filth. I haven't showered yet. I have a basket of damp clothes that I'll be taking to the laundromat once my whites are done in the washing machine. But you can be sure that I'll pray before leaving the house today. Oh, you can be sure.

6 comments:

Limon said...

I take it that our last hanging out was awful enough that you didn't want to risk another night of refusing to pay three dollars to orphans. Understandable. But at least you had a self-conscious evening. That makes me feel better.

Cicada said...

Limon,

I would have invited you but I knew that if you didn't like stinky orphans, you certainly wouldn't want to spend an evening with me and my B.O. Let's do something again when I've showered.

DP said...

Just for the record, when you thought I'd said aged, I had actually said Asian. I can't remember why, either, though.

daltongirl said...

Oh, you make me laugh. Now I know why, when I was saying my morning prayers yesterday, and asked if it would be a good idea to invite you to do something, I got a definite "No" answer. You needed time to do laundry, and I don't like the smell of B.O. very much.

Prayer does work, brother and sisters. Prayer does work.

Scoop said...

You know, I didn't detect any body odor. I was too busy trying to keep my rear end from being injured by your futon. And really, I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, Cicada has orange splatters all over her white shirt and in her hair. And we're having a conversation as though that's completely normal." I had started to respect you for not being overly concerned with your image (in other words, you were comfortable enough not to worry about it), until I read your blob. Then I discovered you're just very good at pretending not to be concerned. Which is still admirable, I suppose.

JB said...

Good luck getting the dryer fixed and soon.