Having traveled home with one tiny "overhead" suitcase (packed far beyond what's allowed) and a backpack, my snow clothes were doomed to remain in my Missouri dresser. This forced me to rummage through the "reserves" closet and pull out a full body snow suit that probably belonged to my great-grandmother. Once I zipped it up, I crept to the mirror and glanced in with a cringe.
I looked like a transformer.
Unable to resist, I stomped up to my brother, making robot sounds. He tried to force my arms down like little Randy in the movie "A Christmas Story".
Though I resembled a 70's hippie-dork, I found myself quite warm when tromping through the thigh-high snow to pull out the tipped snowmachine. No worries about a faulty powder-skirt in this onesie. But when our excursion ended and the snow melted through the thinning lining, my suit and I encountered a deal-breaker moment:
When wet, it smelled like raisins.
This may not bother some people, but I'm a picky raisin eater (meaning I pick them out of whatever I'm eating). I'm an even pickier raisin smeller. In conclusion, though my transformer-adventure was almost as thrilling as the movie, the suit remains in the closet for the next unsuspecting visitor.
I hope they like raisins.
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