I am clean. This doesn't seem like an eventful happening unless you've had the feeling in recent enough memory of being an utter mess. After a weekend of pouring my own sweat into my clothes and grinding dirt into my bare feet, I was quite thoroughly disgusted with myself. This takes doing.
This is the trouble with eighteenth century clothing and eighteenth century lifestyle. Stays (eighteenth century corsets) don't breathe, and you don't bathe often enough to wash what gathers under them off with any regularity. Add this to the layers of clothes despite heat and humidity and you get the distinct impression that people then must have had nearly dead olfactories or they would have been constantly offending one another.
At least it was cool at night, and well into the morning. I can think of nothing worse than waking up (on the ground no less) already sweating.
Vignette to describe mood of weekend:
A group of us are walking down the street, dressed in various stages of eighteenth century and modern clothing. Some are wearing long linen eighteenth century shirts with shorts, others have peeled off gowns and wear only stays and petticoats with flip flops and sunglasses, some are in full costume and others have changed over completely. A beaten-up car with a rather beaten down man driving it pulls over and the window rolls down. "Any of you know how to get to Wicker Park?" We give each other blank looks and shake our heads. "Sorry, man" "Don't know" and then one guy pipes up "We're not from around here." This may rank as one of the best understatements of the year.