Foaming at the knees

Last week I walked to work, trusting that "scattered thunderstsorms" would hold off until late afternoon. Folly. When I was ready to return, steady rain was falling—had been for hours, apparently—with no sign of scattering itself elsewhere. Nothing to do but dive in. It wasn't as if I'd melt, after all.

A loaned umbrella kept my head out of the wet but the bedraggled thing was otherwise more of a psychological shield than anything practical. At least I'd been dry for work. Slogging along, I half noticed something white at the knees of my jeans. Dryer lint? Couldn't be, but I was threading my way through blocks of idle street construction and it was much more important to avoid deep holes masquerading as puddles than it was to ponder my pants.

Only within yards of my door and the towels and dry clothes beyond did I glance down again. The white was noticeably larger than before. And it was foamy. Foam? D'oh. When I washed those jeans the night before, the laundromat machine must have done a less-than-sterling job of rinsing detergent away. The wet denim rubbing against me made suds as I walked. I found it all rather hilarious.

I must have been a comical sight; a middle-aged man chuckling to himself, clenching that scrap of umbrella, soaked from shoulder to sole, with a head on his knees.

Tags: laundromat, weather