No, I'm not talking about the election results (though I could be). I'm talking about the trauma caused by a few ounces of a seemingly innocuous liquid.
Ink.
If you didn't know, I'm taking a cartooning class, and my primary tools are pencil and ink. I had never used pen nibs and ink before, and I enjoy the inking process. It's fun, and lets me imagine I'm using a quill pen.
Every week I take my art supplies with me to work, and then down to Chinatown for my drawing class. Savvy traveler that I am, I carry my pencils and erasers and pens in a zippered bag, and keep the jar of ink encased in a plastic sandwich bag.
So. Imagine my surprise—no, let's make that shock—when after class last night, when I stood up after a 45-minute bus ride, I felt something sticky on my leg. I looked down, and a massive blotch of blossoming black consumed my entire right thigh.
Before I finished departing the bus I was already reaching into my bag for the culprit, and before long was grasping an ink-filled sandwich bag that immediately stained my entire hand. Ink had saturated the bottom of my (expensive, brand-name) bag, which was transferring black smudges to anything it touched. I was four blocks from home and still had to stop in the drug store for some frozen dinner, so it was good that the corner diner didn't mind handing me some napkins.
As I trudged home, dripping with ink, I tried not to think about how ruined my (designer) jeans and bag were. I thought about how privileged I am to even be taking this cartooning class, to have the ability to buy this ruinous ink, to have a home to return to and a way to get clean.
I also thought about how, in class, just a few drops of ink could require a whole paper towel to blot them up, how a quick dip of the nib lent astonishing longevity. This is wonderful, from an efficiency perspective. But it also means that the quantity of ink spilled in my bag and on my pants was monumental.
Once home, it was an inkbath. Splotches everywhere, try as I might to contain them. Splashes of black ink in the sink, on the floor, on the toilet, ringing the tub. Splatters on my face, on the wall, on the faucet. I'd stripped off my most of my clothing to avoid further damaging it, and I'm sure I made quite the sight, half naked, hovering over the bathtub at an odd angle, alternately scrubbing at my bag and jeans and using a rag to swipe at errant ink splashes, which seemed to replenish themselves as fast as I rinsed them. (Because the stains were so concentrated, adding water meant more and more ink.) All this while trying to avoid the massive ink patch on the skin of my thigh, which would have only contributed to the chaos had it gotten wet.
Thankfully adding enough water—like, gallons upon gallons—seemed to flush out the worst of the stains in both the bag and the pants, but I won't be able to truly assess the damage until the dark fabrics fully dry. And I cleaned up the bathroom surfaces well enough to avoid permanent destruction, though a vinegar and baking soda paste is definitely in order. And it turned out that the process of washing the ink from my leg was actually pretty cool; since it had dried so thickly on my skin, I found I could scratch it off in layers under the shower spray and had fun shaping the spread of ink into a cartoon face.
All in all, the catastrophe ranks lower than what happened to Congress last night, but a tidal wave of ink is definitely not what I bargained for at 10:30 p.m. following a day of work and study. It's safe to say I've learned my lesson about screwing lids on t-i-g-h-t-l-y.
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