Or: That Time I Lost a Boot, My Dignity, and Possibly Part of My Soul
So there I was, minding my own business, thinking I could have a normal farm day. (I know, I know—rookie mistake.) We had rain like it was trying to re-flood the Earth. Puddles became ponds. Mud became quicksand. And the pigs? Oh, they were living their best swamp life.
The electric fence around the pig pen had gone all sad and droopy, like an overcooked spaghetti noodle. It needed to be tightened up. So I got clever: I distracted the pigs with food—a classic move in the “how to avoid being trampled” handbook—and snuck into their pen to fix the fence.
About halfway through my mission, my left boot made a bold decision to abandon the rest of me. It stuck firmly in the mud, while my body kept moving forward with the grace of a drunken giraffe on roller skates. What followed can only be described as interpretive dance meets panic attack—arms flailing like airport ground crew on espresso, legs windmilling, mud flying.
Then came the moment gravity won. And somehow, despite my forward motion, I ended up flat on my back like a turtle flipped upside down. Don’t ask me how. Newton himself would’ve thrown his apple and said, “Nah, that ain’t right.”
And this wasn't just any mud. This was pig mud. A luxurious blend of topsoil, rainwater, leftover slop, and pig poo, aged to perfection. The kind of smell that grabs your nostrils and shouts, “WELCOME TO THE FARM, BABY!”
As I lay there, auditioning for Swine Survivor, I tried to figure out how to get up without adding more pig-based goo to my person. That plan lasted exactly five seconds, because the pigs, now done eating, decided to investigate. And by investigate, I mean gallop toward me like a snorting stampede of short-legged hippos.
At this point, survival instincts kicked in. I pushed myself up, now adding mud to my arms and the front of my shirt. The pigs, sensing weakness (and probably hoping I was a snack), took the opportunity to notice the fence was completely down. Off they went on a joy-filled, mud-slicked jailbreak.
I stared at their chunky behinds disappearing into the distance and thought, “Well... at least now I can fix the fence without anyone licking my ears.”
I wrangled the fence back into place, which was easier said than done considering I was moving like a Roomba with a drinking problem. The pigs actually stopped running and ambled back to watch. Not out of concern, heaven forbid, but with the quiet curiosity of creatures wondering whether to intervene or just let nature run its course.
Just when I thought I might actually finish the job and slink away with a shred of dignity—BAM!—the right boot betrayed me too. Apparently it couldn’t stand the separation anxiety and decided to join its partner in muck-based rebellion.
Now I’m wallowing around in my socks, which instantly became one with the mud, absorbing every earthy, squishy, pig-poo-soaked molecule. I swear I heard them sob softly. Every step made a squelch so loud it echoed. My socks were no longer socks—they were now biohazards.
At this point, my feet are wet, my boots are buried somewhere around ankle-deep, and I’m just slogging through the muck with the grace of a toddler wearing oversized flippers. I'm not fixing a fence—I’m starring in a one-woman mud wrestling match, and the mud is winning.
Then I spotted a broken fence post nearby—blessedly pointy on one end and sort of solid on the other. Did I hesitate? Not for a second. I snatched it up and used it like a walking stick-slash-battle staff, stabbing it into the mud for balance like a deranged farm hobbit crossing the Misty Mountains of Pig Filth.
I looked like Gandalf’s muddier cousin, limping through the sludge yelling, “You shall not pass!”—mostly to the pigs who were eyeing me like I might be the second course. Then, like a grain-based pied piper, I lured those porky escapees back into their pen with the promise of seconds. Pigs are easily manipulated. Just like me, apparently.
I squelched my way back to the house—mud oozing out of my socks and clinging to my backside like a diaper at DEFCON 1. My hair, once long and lovely, was now a mud curtain. There was mud on my face, my neck, my soul.
I hollered into the house, “EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!” and proceeded to strip down outside like a feral cavewoman. Modesty has absolutely no place when covered with pig mud. I walked to the shower stark naked, trailing clumps of pig pen behind me.
Three full rounds of scrubbing and I still smelled like Eau de Hog Heaven. So I did what any desperate woman would do: I grabbed my teenage grandson's Mennen body wash. If that stuff can mask the teenage boy stench of dirty socks, football practice, and puberty sweat, surely it could handle a little pig manure.
The clothes got hosed down, washed, bleached, and blessed by a priest.
The gloves still stank and got tossed straight into the trash. Turns out pig mud is like glitter—once it’s in your life, it never fully leaves. And the boots? They died as they lived: in a pit of muck. I didn’t even try to save them. I just saluted, and whispered, “Thank you for your service”. I’d wanted new ones anyway. To my knowledge they're still buried somewhere in the pig pen.
So, next time you hear someone say, “Farm life must be so peaceful,” just know somewhere out there, a woman is flailing in pig mud, losing her boots and her dignity, while pigs laugh in the face of her misguided efforts.
The moral of the story?
Never trust mud.
Always bring extra clothes.
And keep your teenage grandson's body wash locked and loaded.
