This is me saying, "Stop calling me cute."
I was recently in the White Mountains talking with the leader of a group of college kids, when one of the students walked up and said, “Something smells awful!” She looked at me and reddened. “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s something else.”
I shrugged and said, “No. It probably is me.”
It’s true. I stink. We all do. It’s pretty much inevitable. Another hiker, Big Blues, and I shared a washing machine, and, despite running our clothes through twice with big heaps of detergent, they still stank.
Although everyone smells bad, I have been wondering if perhaps I take it to a new level. I wore the same pants every day for two months (and they’ve been sewn together a couple of times), and I haven’t invested a lot of time into that whole bathing thing. Another hiker, Brave Little Toaster, told me that I am “the grime-iest girl” he had ever met. As he is my friend, I took this statement as a badge of honor. I’m pretty sure that if I work hard and practice enough, I could be considered the grime-iest girl alive.
So you can imagine my shock and horror when I was recently told that I look “cute.” Let me explain. I have recently switched to hiking in a skirt because of its enhanced pee-ability, that is to say that I can now pee whenever I want, wherever I want, and all without having to take my backpack off.
When two middle aged women asked me about my skirt, I told them about the pee benefits and that skirts let you take rain pants or tights on or off while still being modest.
Then one of them said, “Well, aren’t you just the cutest thru-hiker I’ve ever seen with your skirt and your gators!”
I think there was a tiny hint of mockery in her voice, but maybe this is my own self-judgement coming through. I said that gators are important because they protect your legs from brush and poison ivy and I got this particular set because they were on sale at the outfitter.
The other woman said, “And you’re so matchy-matchy with your little bandanna!”
I thought, “Listen, lady. I fought tooth and nail through the White Mountains and battled through the state of Maine. I have war wounds on my legs, back, and arms. I have faced terrors that you cannot begin to understand. I am burly, hardcore, an animal, but I am absolutely not cute.” (Being called cute makes me a tad melodramatic.)
Then they said, “I bet you don’t even have to change when you go into town.”
I said, “Yes, and the skirt can also be worn as a dress, which is fun.”
And then it hit me: somehow, somewhere, against the very force of the universe, I had transitioned from being the “grime-iest girl alive” to being “cute.” It was a slow, almost imperceptible, but dangerous shift.
I’ve been working to rectify the situation, but the terrain in Vermont and Massachusetts is relatively flat and dry, so it is hard to get grimey quickly. In the meantime, I am bathing as little as possible and trying not to wince when people call me “cute.”
