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The urge to scream again is back.
“Everything okay in there?” a voice asks from somewhere in the bathroom.
“All good!” I call back, hoping I sound like a sane person. “I’ll be out in a few if you’re waiting.”
Standing naked, the air quickly cooling the water dripping from my body, I look at my backpack, knowing it doesn’t have what I need in it.
I didn’t pack a towel. I know I didn’t. I didn’t even pack a washcloth. I had to use my bare hands to lather the soap on my body.
Shiiiiit!
Not seeing another choice, I pull my sleep-shirt free from my pile of discarded clothes and use it as a makeshift towel. Makeshift is the keyword, because all fabrics are not created equal. I don’t know what this shirt is made of, but it appears to stop absorbing when my body is only about 80% dry.
Giving up, I drop the wet shirt onto the bench and start to get dressed.
I get my thong on. No problem. Then I start on the leggings.
Leggings are great, because when they’re made correctly, they can keep everything in place. I’ve never had a small stature, and my extra rounded curves need all the added control they can get. But pulling on skintight leggings when your body is still 20% damp is tantamount to being forced to watch your parent’s sex tape. Something no human should have to endure.
I yank. And tug. And shimmy. And feel everything jiggle.
I jump and silently curse while I pull some more.
Inch by inch, they creep up my thighs.
The room is still cold, but now it’s mixed with an uncomfortable level of humidity, and all this struggling is making me start to sweat. Which ohmygod only adds to the problem!
Clenching my teeth, screaming in my head, I give one final jerk, at the same time that I jump, and my leggings slide into place.
I make a silent promise to myself that I won’t drink anything today, so I won’t have to pee and therefore won’t have to take these off.
Then I reach for my sports bra and almost cry.
“I’m fine.” I whisper the mantra to myself, as I put my arms through and pull the bra over my head.
The material does that special Sports Bra Trick where the material rolls into a tight twist, wedging itself into my armpits and above my boobs.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.”
More sweat forms on my back and I contort myself, bending my arms in ways they don’t want to bend, grasping for the bottom band stuck high across my back.
“I’m fine.” I’m not as quiet this time, but I don’t even care anymore if someone overhears me.
My fingertips catch the band, and ignoring the spasm that’s starting in my arm, I get a hold of the material and tug.
I twist and bend and clench my teeth.
An eternity later, with a final snap of elastic, it’s in place.
Reaching a hand down the front of the bra, I pull each boob up so they’re nestled nicely in their spandex cage.
Feeling like an overstuffedsausage, I slap on some deodorant, tug on my layers of shirts and escape the shower stall.
Beelining it back to my tent, I’m able to avoid eye contact and make it inside without incident.
Happy that Rebecca is still nowhere to be seen, I collapse onto the floor. I need a moment alone to work on finding my Zen.
I allow myself two minutes of wallowing, then I comb through my hair and fashion it into two long braids, draping one over each shoulder. Knowing I can’t walk around in this weather with uncovered damp hair, I find my purple knit hat and put it on.
