I have a boyfriend who is fond of lists – grocery lists, guest lists, goal lists. His greatest triumph, however, are his packing lists. I have peered into his notebook and seen packing lists appropriate for warm weather, cold weather, holiday occasions, sporting events, adventure events, each with apparel and accessories relevant to activities on each trip. I, on the other hand, fly by the seat of my pants that I sometimes forget to pack, content that when travelling if I have my passport, bank card and plane ticket that I am doing well. Everything else, I reason, I can purchase for the price of worrying about it. This is how my duffle bags often end up far over the 50lb limit at the airport and run out of underwear on day two, and he has a small rolling suitcase and manages to remember watch batteries.
It was sadly without this guidance that I packed my backpack up North, though I must admit I administered more than my usual care in packing for this trip. I rolled up t-shirts in order to save space, made sure to only pack one pair of sweatpants that could double as pyjamas, (I was being resourceful!) , two pairs of pants that I could afford to lose to oil stains, and so on and so forth. So imagine my surprise my first day of work when I peered into my shoes and found not socks, as I had watched my boyfriend do so many times – but panties. Not underwear. Stringy, lacy, panties. Not a sweat sock or wool sock in sight. Apparently, in my careful and resourceful packing, I had not thought that socks would double as…socks.
Embarrassed, I called my co-worker and Rick’s daughter Nicole, to beg for secrecy and two pairs of socks that I may borrow until I could stretch my 12$ further into the pay period. These two pair, I realised as I handled them as gold, would have to last me the next 20 days.
There are only so many ways that you can wear a pair of socks before they need washing, whether there is a washing machine handy or not. And in my case, there was not. Fancying myself smart, I washed them by hand, singing cowboy songs at my sink, scrubbing foot out of them with dish soap. The next morning, stuffing my feet into thick wet socks and boots and returning that evening with blisters the size of silver dollars, I realised that my method would have to be perfected. That is how I came into my nightly routine, wherein I would get home, take a shower with my socks on, scrubbing them with almond scented Dr. Bronners. After getting out of the shower, I would jump up and down on folded towel, squelching the water out and shaking my trailer in the process. After that, I would heat up a frying pan on the propane stove, and lightly fry my socks until dry. The Teflon provided a surface akin to the inside of a dryer, and my socks never shrunk. Instead of the usual sour odour when work boots were removed, mine smelled like candied almonds and hot rubber, not altogether an unpleasant scent.
It was sadly without this guidance that I packed my backpack up North, though I must admit I administered more than my usual care in packing for this trip. I rolled up t-shirts in order to save space, made sure to only pack one pair of sweatpants that could double as pyjamas, (I was being resourceful!) , two pairs of pants that I could afford to lose to oil stains, and so on and so forth. So imagine my surprise my first day of work when I peered into my shoes and found not socks, as I had watched my boyfriend do so many times – but panties. Not underwear. Stringy, lacy, panties. Not a sweat sock or wool sock in sight. Apparently, in my careful and resourceful packing, I had not thought that socks would double as…socks.
Embarrassed, I called my co-worker and Rick’s daughter Nicole, to beg for secrecy and two pairs of socks that I may borrow until I could stretch my 12$ further into the pay period. These two pair, I realised as I handled them as gold, would have to last me the next 20 days.
There are only so many ways that you can wear a pair of socks before they need washing, whether there is a washing machine handy or not. And in my case, there was not. Fancying myself smart, I washed them by hand, singing cowboy songs at my sink, scrubbing foot out of them with dish soap. The next morning, stuffing my feet into thick wet socks and boots and returning that evening with blisters the size of silver dollars, I realised that my method would have to be perfected. That is how I came into my nightly routine, wherein I would get home, take a shower with my socks on, scrubbing them with almond scented Dr. Bronners. After getting out of the shower, I would jump up and down on folded towel, squelching the water out and shaking my trailer in the process. After that, I would heat up a frying pan on the propane stove, and lightly fry my socks until dry. The Teflon provided a surface akin to the inside of a dryer, and my socks never shrunk. Instead of the usual sour odour when work boots were removed, mine smelled like candied almonds and hot rubber, not altogether an unpleasant scent.
And on a cold morning, there is nothing like a skillet of refried sock in your boots.
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