I have enough clothes to go at least two weeks before I have to do laundry.
I have a large drawer full of socks and underwear. On socks alone, I could probably go a month, but certain socks have specific purposes. I have my everyday socks, my winter socks, and ankle socks, for when I wear shorts or am on my bike.
Same with t-shirts. I could easily go a month before I ran out of them. Pants are another matter, because depending on my level of activity, I can wear the same pants for several days, so I have enough pairs to go at least a month.
I know that I'm running low on underwear when I get down to the four pairs of travel undies, which are lightweight and are able to hang dry in less than a day. I brought them with me to Peru and was laughing for 16 days: I'd wear a pair, wash a pair and hang them up to dry, and still have two back-up pairs available, just in case the humidity levels slowed down the drying time or I had an emergency.
I dislike these socks and try to keep my laundry up to date so that I don't have to wear them. They're hot and make my feet sweat, and I pride myself on having feet that don't stink.
Well, on Monday, I realized that I had run out of socks as I got dressed and pulled out these old socks. And when I put them on, I noticed a tiny hole under the big toe on my right foot.
Because they were the only 'normal' socks that I had and because it was too warm to be putting on winter socks, I kept them on but told myself that this would be the last time I wore them. Like a pair of the cotton Tommy Hilfiger socks that had also developed a hole near the heel, last week, I'd be throwing this pair out.
When I realized that I was finally getting rid of these socks, I started thinking about when I had originally acquired them. I know I wouldn't have bought them myself because I don't like polyester as a rule, and especially not for my feet.
The socks were a simple black with a vertical ribbing that helped keep them up. Practical but as basic as they come.
And then the memory of getting them hit me like a ton of bricks.
In my youth, I had enlisted in the Canadian Armed Services with my best friend, Stuart. We were going to be weekend warriors, in the militia. We trained on Thursday evenings and on weekends at the drill hall near city hall, and during the summer we would be spending time at the base in Petawawa.
We were in the Cameron Highlanders, a proud outfit with strong Scottish roots. As part of our kit, we were issued a kilt, tam-o'-shanter, and special knee-high socks for when we wore the kilt. We also had green fatigues that we wore most of the time.
I wrote about my kilt in another blog post many years ago.
As part of our dress kit, we were provided with several pairs of socks, which we had to wear as part of our uniform. They were basic-black polyester socks.
The same pair that I wore this week. Folks, this pair of socks is 43 years old. I've had them since I was 17.
I mustered out of the Cameron Highlanders a few weeks after joining, after breaking my leg while playing soccer at school, just a week before we were going to be let out for the summer. I had to return all of my kit but was told to keep the socks. Understandably, they wouldn't be reused.
I kept the socks with my others, only wearing them when I dressed for occasions such as weddings and funerals. I had better socks for when I worked in sales and at a bank, but the military-issued socks would come out every once in a while.
Over the decades, they would eventually wear a hole and be discarded. But because I had enough socks that I would wear regularly, the last pair of these black socks stayed tucked away at the back of my sock drawer, pulled out only when I was desperate for socks and hadn't done laundry in a while.
On Monday night, I took the socks off and took a final photo of them before chucking them out. After 43 years, the last evidence that I had been a soldier—albeit for only a month—was gone.
Of course, I still had the photos that my mom snapped.
Happy Thursday!
No comments:
Post a Comment