Musing on stinky clothes.
I grew up in a family of girls.
The first “male part” I saw was in grade school. The two-year-old brother of a friend running around naked after a bath.
Why do men — of any age — love to run around naked? Or stroll around naked? Utterly unconcerned with the effect their nakedness is having on innocent bystanders. (That is an entirely different and much complicated post.)
* * *
My son was leaving just now.
“Oh mom, by the way, it was really muddy in practice. Can you wash my clothes?”
I picked up the black bag.
Growing up with a sister — the only “black bag” we knew was carried by our grandfather, the doctor. We knew nothing of athletic bags that sons cram wet, body-sweat laden clothes into.
Why shouldn’t they?
Mom is going to reach in there and touch those cold, wet things and wash them.
How could she do this? I made her drop it after realizing she might get some sort of staph infection.
She said, “It’s not that bad?”
I made her drop it immediately.
A photograph can't capture the tint of the grime or the scent of dead animals.
It was so bad, I emptied clothes from the bag into the washer.
And for the good of all humanity, threw the bag in too.
How do you clean athletic wear — from the body odor of a teenage male or mid-life hormonal stink-like-I’ve-never-stinked-in-my-life woman?
