(I knew that I said I wanted to have longer posts here, but, believe me, this is not what I had in mind.)

It's kind of a funny story I have to tell. Whether it's 'ha-ha' funny or 'what the hell' funny is up to you.

It all started with slush.

The first snow of the season (okay, not quite the first; I remember vividly rushing from a Quiznos to a bus stop early last month under what I thought was hail, but turned out to be snow) fell on our town during the wee hours of the morning. How do I know? This sore throat I'm currently fighting wouldn't let me sleep.

Knowing I'd be called on to do so anyway, I shoveled the stuff up. (Note: Wet snow is way harder to get up than regular snow.) My boots were a little worn from treating them as work boots for the last year or so. Still, that didn't quite prepare me for the constant onslaught of coldness and wetness as I walked up the street to the bus stop. By the time I got to work, it felt like my feet were soaking in mush.

During my first break, I went to the bathroom and took my socks off. I wrapped them in paper towels and placed them in my locker. I spent the rest of the day in my bare feet. It felt so much better than wearing wet socks.

On my last break, I checked to see if my socks were completely dry. Not quite, and the brown color of the boots had bled into the socks. After my shift ended, I decided to dry the socks off in the microwave (there's a microwave in the breakroom for heating up lunches as such).

There was a manager going over some things in the breakroom when I got there. I figured, 'I'm gonna risk it'. I place the socks with the paper towels in the microwave and set it on four and a half minutes. My feet will be nice and toasty. I go to the bathroom to wash my hands.

When I come out, something smells like it's burning. It's coming from the microwave! It couldn't be! It was. My socks were smoking. No sooner did I drop them to the floor than a spark erupted from one of the socks. The manager suggested getting them underwater. Showing a surprising balance of resourcefulness and panic, I bundle the socks up and run them under the bathroom sink, putting out any potential flame. The store survived, but my socks...charbroiled; black as night and flaking apart (yes, flaking apart).

Nervous and more than a little embarassed, I offer to take whatever punishment the manager had to offer. (Honestly, how was I supposed to know that socks were combustible?!) My punishment: clean out the microwave. I doubt it's been cleaned in a while, but I do my best. The door, the walls, the caked-on whatsis on the rotating glass dish.

I was forced to throw my socks away. There was no way I was wearing those again...which left me in an unfortunate bind. I had to leave sometime, but who knows what the cold air would do to my bare feet? (I did, but still...) I called home and got a ride.

Maybe the story will get back to the head manager and maybe it won't. Who knows? Someday, when my socks end up in some landfill, found by some derelict, he may wonder, 'who would be foolish enough to do this to their socks?'. Who, indeed?