I used to spend every waking moment on the weekends and summers at Urban Stables. Most of that time was used to get as dirty as humanely possible.
Rain puddle? In it. Pig trough? Sharing it with the pig. Dust filled rafters? Climbing them.
It was glorious.
Since I was a wee little thing I have loved being dirty. I love the squish of wet mud between my toes, the look of grit under my fingernails, the carelessness of not worrying about laying in the dirt.
And now, all these years later, I still enjoy being filthy.
Today I finished my day of hiking (mostly along boring trees — not to say that trees are boring, but hour after hour of the same view is [and why I probably will never be tempted by the Appalachian Trail, no matter what Rainbow Dash says about it]), laid out my tyvek, and went about cleaning myself before putting on my jammies.
I took one cleansing face wipe (deliciously, but not overpoweringly scented) to my face, hands, and feet. My face was sweaty but not dirt filled, my hands were covered in the grime my trekking poles love picking up, and my feet were caked in thick, dark brown dust.
I scrubbed at my feet, tender with their tendinitis (any tips for top of foot tendinitis guys?!), removing the muck that crusted over my toenails. Then I worked on my heels, the wrinkles in my blisters and callouses thrilled to have the mire ferreted out.
But it all was too much for my poor face cleansing wipe. Away it went into one of my endless plastic baggies and another came out with a flourish.
My legs were next — dots of grime trying to eek out livings inside my poor pores. Not today! I exclaimed, roughly wrestling the stuff from my legs.
A few days ago I texted Rainbow Dash a picture of my happy feet in my brand new shoes at the end of a day just like today.
“You look so strong — and filthy!” Dash texted back.
That is exactly how I’d like to stay.