This happened to me: Streaking in my own back yard
It’s a sunny spring morning in the 2013; the birds are chirping, the trees a fuzzy green with protruding buds, newborn calves running around chasing butterflies and eating dandelions. A perfect day. I head down into the field to check all the Moos, holding the morning’s sweet coffee nectar in my trusty Cantigo mug and sporting my favourite pink skiing bunny pajamas under very smelly work overalls.
Being springtime, the field is quite wet. I head down the field without issue. Soon, however, with each step my boots get stuck in the slippery mud; more and more stuck with every step. I thought to myself that I should stop and make a new plan when it happened: one second I am walking and sipping Taster’s Choice, the next second I am slipping on the mud and flying “ass over tea kettle”. I quickly turn in the air to avoid landing flat on my back and smacking my head. That is one of the benefits of being a veteran klutz – you learn how to quickly react and contort for minimum impact and injury. I must have looked like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel.
As the shock of the fall subsides, I realize that the entire right side of my body is covered in mud. I look half-dipped in chocolate. Although it wasn’t chocolate. It was, thankfully, mostly mud as we had just turned them out into that field that morning. There was some other stuff but let’s just go with mostly mud.
In my split-second wisdom I think to save my beloved morning coffee. Half buried in mud on my left side, my left arm shot straight up. I lay there in the mud, victoriously holding my unscathed coffee cup, still filled with coffee. Phew.
I walk back towards the house, flaking off the drying mud mask covering my body. I strip off all my clothes halfway back and leave them at the barn to be hosed off later. As I step away from the barn, I hear a car pulling up the driveway. I can’t possibly make it to the house without my visitors seeing me. Crap!
I play it cool and hide behind the garage. A family hops out of their car – a Mom, a Dad, and two kids under five. “Perfect,” I sarcastically sigh to myself. I call out a hello and beeline into the house as I shout something about having to take the kettle off the stove.
That was the fastest body wash in history. One, sadly, I have had to since repeat.