Who the hell has time to do anything with their laundry other than wash, dry, and dump on the floor in the designated clean-clothes corner? I've never ironed, steamed, or dry cleaned in my life. If I necessitated that kind of luxury, I'd have to incorporate a live-in boyfriend, and in my limited experience there's a tedious process to that whole charade of monkey business. I just grab whatever fits, which is contingent on how much water I'm retaining and how many sandwiches I had for lunch the day before, and throw it on whether it's wrinkled or creased or slightly stained. Half the time I forget an article.
I saw a man at Burger Moe's in St Paul the other day. He was wearing a Pepto-Bismol pink polo that looked like it just crawled out from under the barbed wire fence of an origami-themed torture camp. I've never seen such a wrinkled shirt. This man who defied the societal garment expectations of public neatness, was obliviously heroic, this rebellious middle-aged white man with glasses and a generic brown hairstyle. This average man, probably an HR rep at a medium-sized office supply company who enjoys the evening news and pretending to listen to his wife, became a man of great defiance the day he made the conscious decision to put on a shirt that was more wrinkled than the left half of a life-long over-the-road trucker. #theresistence.
Now I don't feel so alone for my laissez faire dealings with garments. I have left home and forgot to put on shoes more than once. It's just one more thing to think about, and I already have so many thoughts cluttering my mind that fabric softener and dryer sheets won't fit on the mental shelves. My mind is already so cluttered I wish I could poke a big hole in my head and drain all the sewage. Then maybe I'd have room to think about grown-up things like laundry and bills and getting a real job.
I think that if we were even meant to wear clothes, we would not have been born naked. It's just one more distraction. One more decoy to divert attention from the finality of existence, the limited time that humanity has left before we are scorched from the earth, the blessing of a single life that is as brief as a fart in the grand expanse of time and the universe. It's like being asleep in small pictures instead of awakening to the biggest picture. Without seeing big problems, the little ones become magnified. Like a wrinkled shirt or some scuffed shoes, or the fact that I only have six presets on my car radio but I like seven radio stations.
Tangents like this are why no one likes me and all my friends are imaginary.
Catfish in the Mud
I went to Namibia and took a tour of Sossusvlei, where it hasn't rained in 6 years. The river is completely dried up. My guide told me that even in the six-year drought, catfish are hibernating deep down in the mud and will surface again when the rains come back and restore life to the desert. I didn't believe him at first, like I didn't believe in the mysterious fairy circles on the dunes. But now the idea of catfish in the mud has become a metaphor for the things trapped on the inside and down below that wait for the rains to give them some vigor and life. Catfish in the Mud is a pretty standard millennial blog in which I say mostly nothing in about 300 words.