When I was billeting at the Sullivans house it rained. Most every day. And I went out on their bikes with their daughter Katie and we just went so far and so fast as we darted out to the lake for our after-work swims. And it was a blast as we biked through the puddles and the mud sprayed up all over us: our hair and faces and, yes, clothes. And now, three weeks later, I’m searching the enternet at quarter to tweleve at night for tips on how to remove set-in mud stains from a white shirt. And it raises two questions in my mind: what the heck’s an enzyme digester cleaner and why do I conform to this arbitrary social convention that says that a few dark dots on my shirt aren’t okay? I guess because I don’t want to send the message that I’m a slob.