I Shit You Not
Image from Pixabay
Story Number 9: Grapes of Irony Number 4
(Written 7/22/22)
I was standing at the washing machine, cutting the tags and peeling the labels off new clothing that I bought and was putting everything in the washer. My then, and now former partner and still most excellent friend, Greg, said, “Why are you washing those clothes? They are brand new?” I then elucidated for him the research I had heard about while listening to NPR (and let it be known that I love research, so I was really in my element here; and the subject matter was gross, so that made it ever better!). I explained to Greg that researchers took clothing from racks at various department stores and swabbed the clothing, in different places (not just the obvious crotch and pits) and they found a plethora of various bodily fluids on the brand-new clothing—feces, saliva, boogers, phlegm, breast milk, urine, vomit, menstrual and non-menstrual blood, vaginal fluid, semen, sweat, plus scabs and sloughed off skin. “You know,” I said, “Pooh and pee particles. All sorts of gross stuff. Found all over the clothing.” He looked at me skeptically. I said, “Even if it’s just a little bit of some of that, eeewww, that’s gross! Think about scabies, lice, crabs, and people’s poor, or non-existent hygiene. I’m even a bit freaked out thinking about trying on new clothes now.”
I have learned over the years, that it is best to not think too hard about many things, and now “new” clothing was added to the list. Especially after I started my career as a social worker at Child Protective Services, the unhygienic conditions (read that “fucking disgusting!”) I have seen of people and their habitations defies comprehension and would make most people lose their lunch. Those who work at CPS become germophobes because of what we witness. So if I thought too hard about doing my job, or touching door handles, sitting in movie theater seats (especially with my head against the backrest), trying on clothing, driving rental cars, sitting, standing in or sleeping in hotel rooms, using any seat that is used by other members of society, using public rest rooms, brushing up against other people in crowded places, touching shopping cart handles, eating food in restaurants (this comes from the investigation of a dirty home where the client said she needed to go to work and she raked her foot through all the debris on the floor until she found her waitstaff uniform from a well-known restaurant, which she then proceeded to put on), well, if I thought about these things too hard, I would never leave the house. I have just adopted the attitudes of “don’t think about it” and “no befoulment has harmed me yet” so I can move about through my day. That being said, after hearing about that phenomenal research, I decided it was best to forevermore wash my new clothing. So I did. And every time I did Greg would have to give me a little crap about it (pun intended) and it became sort of a ritual we went through, him giving me the skeptical eye, me proclaiming the existence of pooh and pee particles, amongst other things, on my new clothing. It was a fun little thing we did. But I most certainly felt superior as I did my laundering, as I knew the research!
And then on November 8, 2018, the Paradise Camp Fire came and incinerated 99.9% of all my possessions. As I was preparing to evacuate at 7:30 in the morning I grabbed some underwear, pjs, the outfit I had hanging on the back of the bathroom door meant for the next day, and I had the clothing I was wearing. That was the sum total of my wardrobe I owned after I evacuated. I no longer had my closet full of capris, blouses, dresses, skirts, formal clothing for court, shoes, boots, slippers, jackets, sweatshirts, flannel shirts, hats, scarves, gloves, or my bureau full of socks (I had a GREAT sock collection!), bras, sleepwear, T-shirts, shorts, or pants. Gone. All of it gone; burnt up.
The first evening of the fire, as the sky 50 miles to the south was smoky, and we knew the fire was blazing and spreading, Greg and I went to a department store to buy more clothes, just so we had something to wear, and hundreds (thousands?) of other fire evacuees were doing the same. This was even more necessary for Greg as he literally had only the proverbial “clothing on his back” to his name, choosing to evacuate his disabled clients rather than saving any of his own belongings. We got what we could off the clearance rack and raided all the other racks. It was a weird experience, buying a small but complete wardrobe as the fire raged. I had no thought whatsoever that my house would not burn, having had the “knowledge” that my house was going to burn down since the spring of that year (I tend to “know” things; this is a blessing and a curse), so there was not the thought of, “well, just get a few things to hold me over,” because I knew I lost everything.
Back in the hotel room, I was thankfully able to secure for us (all rooms in Chico were taken by the time I reached the valley floor at 9:30 AM, just three hours after the fire started), I cut the tags and removed the labels from my new clothing. I did think about how I would wash everything at this point, but I was too emotionally and physically exhausted to even contemplate going to a laundromat (plus my PTSD from CPS made the thought of doing daily living activities in the community where I worked have a rather maniacal, foreboding, dreadful feel to it—my now fire-consumed home was my safe place). So I just channeled Greg at this point and went to the “safe mental place” (aka denial) of, “Well, really, the clothing is new. How dirty could it be?” Greg and I even talked about the non-laundering of the new clothes and he assured me, “It’s fine, it’s fine. Pooh and pee particles, ha.”
In the hotel, Ku-Co helping with the new clothing
We lived in the hotel for four days and used our new clothing and it was nothing fancy, but I could not imagine anyone at work approaching me to complain about my attire, and I had the bare essentials. Then we moved into a friend’s mother’s in-law cottage, fully furnished, for which I was (and still am) very grateful. I remember sitting on the bed and preparing for work the next day and thinking about what I had to wear. I only had one pair of jeans, that I had worn for a few days, but wondered if I could wear them for another day. Now, none of us talk about this, but we all do it: I smelled the crotch of the jeans and, what the fuck!? They smelled like straight up crap! My first thought was, “In all of this horribleness, did I crap myself at some point and have no awareness of this?” because, who knows, losing all your shit in a town-destroying fire, could, in theory, cause one to lose their shit, right? I looked at the inner crotch of the jeans and did not see any offending material. But yes, they smelled like pure crap, as if someone had wiped their fecal-smeared ass on them. I looked at all the underwear I had worn and since I wear a pantyliner I knew I may not see anything, which I didn’t (plus I am a good wiper and I am proud to say I do not leave skid marks). So, yes, I admit, I smelled my underwear, and nope, none of them smelled like crap. Therefore, I could only conclude, what those fabulous researchers had already proven—new clothing can have bodily fluids, including feces, on them, and low and behold, mine did! I shit you not!
So I continued to sit there on the bed, and I reflected on how this was really the last insult I needed in my life at this time, as if I had not been through enough. The Universe does speak to me through irony and absurdity and I do have a wicked sense of humor, but at this juncture I was really failing to see the humor in all of this. I mean seriously, for years now, I knew better. I KNEW the research! I was a believer and practitioner of thou washest the new clothing! In the face of Greg’s eye rolling, I was a steadfast disciple and the moment when such an option was not available to me, this has to happen? I sat there, numb, beaten down, insulted, grossed out, definitely trying, but failing miserably, to practice my “don’t think about it” attitude and feeling the befoulment creeping about me. I thought, “Well, someday this is going to make a funny story.” I am gladdened to say that, today, with the passage of time and a lot of trauma work, I can say this is indeed a funny story. But it is still fucking gross!!!
Our new, but apparently not hygienic, wardrobe and “dressers.” One never knows what lurks. Pooh and pee particles. Shudder. Gag.