I have been traveling through India for almost a month, and my clothes attract abominable odors to them. I smell like my flesh is decaying in sewage.
I have habitually paid to have my entire clothes collection cleansed. By the kilo. However, when I inquired, every laundry locality charged by individual item. I resolved to purchase detergent and rinse them myself. I located Tide and was as satisfied with myself as if I had a pet pig named Moo who was as loyal as Mickey Mouse's Pluto. The Tide yielded ten loads and cost as much as three shirts.
After brimming buckets in the bathroom with water and detergent, soaking clothes, rinsing, ringing, and hanging, my hands were as coarse as Cinderella's. But I was pleased with my frugal feats. There were no clotheslines outside, so I suspended shirts, pants, underwear, and socks from light fixtures, faucets, and nails. There was one towel rack. I can't boast bras. My breasts are so stunted they only necessitate nipple tape. Duct and Scotch tape are sufficient. My bathroom resembled a clothes slaughterhouse. Or an obstacle course simulating my great uncle's house. He referred to himself as an inventor. One time I unfastened the door to enter his yard and a flower pot hammered into my head. That was his burglary prevention invention. It is one of my earliest memories.
Every time I added another garment to a bathroom faucet or fixture, a shirt or a pair of underwear would fall and stream into the soused floor. It occurred to me that I should swing shirts in circles to shed water. Like I bend over and brandish my head about when my hair is waterlogged. This was as profitable as investing my savings in the stock market two months before the economy plunged. The apparel I attempted to rattle dry dislodged already dangling attire onto the flooded floor. I gathered the garments and again wrested water from them. My hands felt as smooth as Sacha Baron Cohen's ass. The ensemble eventually replete, I exhaled a Bigfoot blow and slid a foot forward to step from the bathroom. My foot rocket-launched from the detergent, water, and soap infesting the floor. I thrashed my arms to the sides as my body levitated. I clenched everything I could and emitted a screech like a pig being butchered. Toilet paper, clothes, and toiletries showered my descent to the floor.
When I departed Darjeeling, my clothes were as clammy as thirty-eight hours before. Packing saturated clothes resulted in my bags and all belongings smelling like mold.
I blame the wet, cold Himalayan climate. In talking with my mom days later she said a friend had suggested I try out for Survivor. I can't even wash and dry clothes.