this is my dull life. this is my dull life on drugs. this is a haiku.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Wet socks

The Meteorological Service of Canada's WeatherOffice defines St. John's weather as "freezing rain changing to periods of rain this morning then to a few flurries this afternoon. Rainfall amount 5 to 10 mm."

I feel that stringing a series of Indo-European-derived characters together to form a description of the climate does not do justice to the shit that is outside. The sidewalks are filled with the kind of snow that is thin and crusty on top, yet wet and slushy just below. And cold. Did I mention "cold"? Because it's cold.

Whole intersections and portions of road seemed to be flooded due to the rain and melting snow. Twice was I splashed by passing cars. It was just like in one of those clich├ęd romantic comedy moments, except that I have yet to make out with Julia Roberts (which definitely would have happened by now). And I haven't heard any Shania Twain music.

So I sat through my first class just fine, though my feet were soaked so badly that my late entrance was marked by squeegy-wet shoe sounds. I came to the library afterwards, and (due to the high moisture-content of my sneakers) my feet were really starting to itch. My first idea was to go into the public bathroom stall, remove my socks, fold it up in utilitarian toilet paper, and wring the hell out of it. Unfortunately, due to the one-ply-edness of said toilet paper, this didn't do much good.

Having readorned my feet in their feety attire, I emerged from the stall. I then realized that the bathrooms had automatic hand-dryers. "Oh Patrick, you crafty devil you," I thought as I once again removed my soaking shoes and socks. There were two dryers so, as I stood on top of my shoes, I stuck a sock on the nozzle of each one and let them do their thing. As I stood there, mentally patting my self on the back while watching my socks inflate, I remember vaguely noticing that my corner of the bathroom was starting to smell like feet.

"Dah well, who's gonna say anything?" I thought, before mentally giving myself a high-five.

I'd been there for a good 15 minutes, and was working on the last shoe when some dude said, "Man, that really stinks."

I shrugged it off, but it was at this point that I stopped mentally giving myself the wink-and-the-gun. Maybe it was in my head, but I began to notice the new-comers sniffing the air as they entered. Were my shoes that bad? I mean, I'd never had a smelly feet problem before... Coleman had a smelly feet problem, but me? Naw. Surely this was just a by-product of having 62 psi of hot air blown through every pore of my socks and shoes... But still...

I put back on my not-quite-dry right shoe and slunk out of the bathroom.

So now, here I am -- two relatively dry feet, and no skin off my back.

However, having stood directly in front of gale force, sock-flavored winds for upwards of 20 minutes, I'm praying that I don't smell like feet myself...