Hidden Grunge

Worn sock reflected in mirror at motel in Salt Lake City.

   Holes in t-shirts. Torn socks. Grungy looking shorts.
   When embarking on a journey, I pack and wear beat up underwear. All of these clothes are clean.
   As the journey progresses, I trash the underclothes I've worn. Replacing them are additional oldies from the rag shelf back home.
   This approach saves me the hassle of washing laundry. It creates empty space in a day pack, my only article of luggage.
   I traveled to a conference near Salt Lake City. It lasted one week. My outer clothes were neat and pressed. My shoes shined. Nobody sensed the presence of my grunge wear.
   After four days, I exhausted my supply of old underwear shorts, a.k.a. rags. I treated myself to normal shorts.
   By the way, I hate identifying shorts as 'briefs.' Where did that name come from? While growing up, we boys called them shorts, fudge, or skivvies. 
   The less I own, the happier I am. This ethos of minimalism applies to travel. The less I carry, the more footloose I become.