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A Sartorial Crisis

The tell-tale sign was what, just this morning, looked like a paint splash on one of my socks. On investigation, it turned out to be a large hole above the ankle, making me wonder how I’d caused it. 

Buying clothes in Mexico can be hit-or-miss, and the sizing system is different to the US or Canada. I’ve therefore always made it a habit to stock up on replacement clothing during visits back to Toronto, looking for familiar outlets and familiar brands. But, not having been back for 15 months, I’m starting to notice extra wear and tear. A couple of other socks have passed the state of easy repair, one or two shirts are fraying at the cuffs, and a few stains on paler items of clothing won’t wash out. 

Such are the horrors of international quarantine. 

Not there yet … but this could be my future.

A further problem with replacing stuff locally is that our town of Tepoztlan has very limited shopping options for clothes. I’ll need to go to the nearby cities of Cuautla or Cuernavaca, which entails being on buses for up to an hour each way, then being in a place with a large number of people. Some major stores are partly closed, and a friend told me the Cuernavaca Walmart was recently not letting people wander the clothing aisles, where many potentially infected fingers might touch the same item.

Ordering clothes online makes me nervous, since I’ve never found collar or shoe sizes (for example) are precisely the same, brand to brand. Getting delivery here would require prolonged waiting for a driver to find my house in a village without street signs. And I need to try an item before I feel okay buying it. I don’t want to have to send stuff back, and re-order it.

After a year of the pandemic, I’m starting to find many things are getting on my nerves that formerly, I’d have let go by me, at least for a time. Having fresh clothing is a sign things are still basically in order: having frayed or stained khakis indicates they aren’t. 

Forget, then, the statistics about virus caseloads, or stories about delays in delivering vaccines. I’m not even that concerned that Mexico’s President has Covid-19 himself. I’m facing a sartorial crisis.

I’ve occasionally been teased about wearing long-sleeves as opposed to tee-shirts, which are the local expat uniform. But I burn in the sun if I wear short sleeves, and a year or two back I needed a suspicious grey blotch taken off by a dermatologist that was, she assured me, a result of sun-damage. I end up looking oddly like many local older men, who still wear long-sleeved shirts, and this doesn’t hurt my acceptability in this rather closed community. 

So, soon, I imagine, I’ll have to smother myself in my best KN-95 mask, board one of those buses, and go hose-hunting in one of those other cities. I’ll daringly risk acquiring a shirt bearing a hitherto unknown Asian label, or perhaps a pair of jeans. And back home, I’ll congratulate myself on my daring and practicality.

And if the socks and pants don’t last very long, I’ll have to console myself that it’s like my parents’ long-ago life in wartime. Sometimes, in times of prolonged crisis, you just have to settle for sub-standard threads.

Soggy Socks

September 29, 2020

Our rainy season continues, and will do so for another month, maybe longer. We’re getting the leftovers of all those typhoons, hurricanes, tropical depressions and such that occasionally make the weather news where you are. 

Yes, it’s wet here. 

Misty rainclouds drifting along the hilltops this morning.

As with snow falling late in a Canadian March, or even with the hot, dry weather we have here in April and May, I’ve had enough of it. Some people love the rains and dislike the heat, but except when it goes over the top in late spring, I’ll take the heat happily. Right now, the matches I use to light the gas stove in the kitchen fizzle or just disintegrate against the side of the matchbox. The dampness makes the air colder. 

Worst of all, my socks won’t dry.

There is a washing machine here but because of low water-pressure, it’s not reliable. I never use it. What hardly anyone seems to buy, though, is a dryer. “We have the Sun for that,” people explain, overlooking the fact that in July, August, September and October, its appearances can be restricted to weekends and alternate Tuesdays. And then only between unpredictable bursts of almost-sunlight.

I use a laundry service here for shirts and sheets and towels, but they don’t like accepting socks and underwear because these can be lost too easily. Thus, in true pioneering spirit, I hand-wash my socks and my gentleman’s unmentionables once a week, and hang them on the line to dry.

Damp, anxious socks await the arrival of sunlight.

In March or April, if I put them up by 9.30 in the morning, they’re dry by noon. In September … they aren’t. 

I hang them in the bathroom, where fitful afternoon sunshine comes through the window. I hang them in various places indoors that I hope aren’t too humid, but usually turn out to be so. I put them on the line outside, hoping that a brightening of the eastern sky indicates a couple of hours of direct sunlight, sometimes coming home to find that a short rainstorm has re-saturated them.

“Woe,” I cry, “And woe again!” but the clouds do not relent. Drying socks this week has been a three-day process, and half of them still aren’t wearable as a result.

Yes, I know – I should be worried about the virus, the US election and the fact that cruise-ship operators are going broke. Fie on such things I say, and fie some more! I want dry socks. 

I have to proceed by calculating percentages. Once the socks are rinsed, I figure they’ll lose their ‘really’ wet status with four hours outside, provided no rain falls; that’s a function of gravity. 

Then, I start my sky-gazing, watching clouds drift along the cliff-tops on the other side of the village, waiting for my opening. If I see none, they have to hang over chair-backs overnight, or in the bathroom. I know certain brands of sock I’ve bought dry faster, so I check those anxiously to see if those are almost wearable. Calvin Klein socks do not dry fast – take it from an expert.

Overnight, especially if I’ve been burning candles in the living room (and I do so in part because it’s marginally helpful for wet items of clothing), they might get down below 30 percent saturation. which is where the critical assessments of applied sock-craft come in. Some days, they need to stay inside so they get no wetter. Other days, I put them out and check them every 40 minutes. Yesterday, I noted a discernible decrease in dampness, but today, no such luck. I have one pair of dry socks left in the drawer, so I’m counting on a couple of hours of sunshine tomorrow morning to finish the job. But since weather forecasts in this mountainous area are notoriously unreliable, and even locals who work in the fields make wrong guesses, I won’t know till morning.

Yep, life sure can be rough. I can feel your deep sympathy from here – thank you.