Marathon boxers

B. has been taking out upcoming trip to Africa very seriously. We went and got shots. B. got yellow fever and was sick for two weeks, relapsing with a fit of fever that made me remember our marriage vows. We bought 100 percent deet, in hopes that the malaria-carrying mosquitos would go find some less smelly target. We bought khaki pants, and not the too dark khaki, but the just-light-enough khaki that supposedly won’t make the elephants mad. But then again, maybe the elephants really don’t’t care  either way and we’d stick out there like a sore thumb anyway. For obvious reasons.

So basically it feels like we’re preparing for a mission to Mars without a very clear understanding whether to bring a space suit or flip flops. In most likelihood, we’re taking both.

Then came the issue of packing light. With his innate thoroughness, B. researched all sorts of materials and products, from disposable underwear to Teflon socks.

Then this morning, I see a pair of briefs drying on the sink.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It’s an experiment,” he says.

“How come there’s a watch next to them?”

“Because I just washed them, at 9.33. And now I’m timing them to see how fast they dry.”


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