Loofah
Right after I first got to Ft. Bragg, they moved me in with another new soldier. We shared a crappy little barracks room which adjoined another crappy little empty barracks room by way of a shitty little bathroom. Now, sharing a small room with someone can make little problems seem like big ones, but for the most part we got along.
Then they moved two other dudes into the other room. And our bathroom was suddenly cluttered with lotions and conditioners and body scrubs and puffy frilly things that grown men were apparently using to scrub their bodies.
Not for me, thank you very much, I said. I'll stick with my good, old-fashioned bar of Ivory soap. Besides, any dude who uses something called a "loofah" has got to be some kind of girly-man.
So I went on tediously working up lather, spinning that damn bar between my hands for all it was worth. And little problems became big ones. Those damn loofahs! What the hell is going on here! The country is falling apart around our ears, and you sissy boys are using those things like they're NOT the epitome of decadence!
And soon it seemed as if everyone had a loofah. Everyone except Duncan-O, that is. I had lost the battle for the nation's soul.
And a somewhat masculine gray-colored one was on the shelf at Wal-Mart for 94 cents.
I took my shame home with me, stepped into the shower, and with tears in my eyes saluted that bar of Ivory one last time. I bled a few drops of "body wash" onto my pain, and began to scrub.
Oh, the lather! Oh, the suds! And the soothing, mildly abrasive scrubbing motions! And before I knew it...I was clean. In less than half the time it normally would have taken. I stepped out of the shower, into the light, tears streaming down my face, tears of joy this time: "As God is my witness, I will never go dirty again!"
Sometimes all it takes is shedding a shortsighted bad habit to feel free again.
***
In other news, I go off to WLC (aka "Warrior Leader Course", aka "Stupid Shitty Stuff That The Army Makes Me Do") for two weeks tomorrow.
With possibly no Interbuttz throughout the duration.
Oh, the pain.
Then they moved two other dudes into the other room. And our bathroom was suddenly cluttered with lotions and conditioners and body scrubs and puffy frilly things that grown men were apparently using to scrub their bodies.
Not for me, thank you very much, I said. I'll stick with my good, old-fashioned bar of Ivory soap. Besides, any dude who uses something called a "loofah" has got to be some kind of girly-man.
So I went on tediously working up lather, spinning that damn bar between my hands for all it was worth. And little problems became big ones. Those damn loofahs! What the hell is going on here! The country is falling apart around our ears, and you sissy boys are using those things like they're NOT the epitome of decadence!
And soon it seemed as if everyone had a loofah. Everyone except Duncan-O, that is. I had lost the battle for the nation's soul.
And a somewhat masculine gray-colored one was on the shelf at Wal-Mart for 94 cents.
I took my shame home with me, stepped into the shower, and with tears in my eyes saluted that bar of Ivory one last time. I bled a few drops of "body wash" onto my pain, and began to scrub.
Oh, the lather! Oh, the suds! And the soothing, mildly abrasive scrubbing motions! And before I knew it...I was clean. In less than half the time it normally would have taken. I stepped out of the shower, into the light, tears streaming down my face, tears of joy this time: "As God is my witness, I will never go dirty again!"
Sometimes all it takes is shedding a shortsighted bad habit to feel free again.
***
In other news, I go off to WLC (aka "Warrior Leader Course", aka "Stupid Shitty Stuff That The Army Makes Me Do") for two weeks tomorrow.
With possibly no Interbuttz throughout the duration.
Oh, the pain.