Okay, I’m not truly talking about the dog. Yesterday MY breath smelled. It may smell a little bit today too. I can only take this as a sign of my impending death in the next 4 or 5 decades or so. This is how god tells you it’s coming.
I know. I’m so dramatic, at times.
The thing is, I don’t like smells. Weird smells. B.O. – don’t like it. Just don’t. To the point where I’m paranoid about it. I have this friend from back in NY, we’ll call her Re-Re. Re-Re was a hugger. She hugs everyone. All the time. You can’t help, but love Re-Re – man or woman – because she’s such a loving person. It doesn’t hurt that she’s 40 something and has the rockin’ body of a 20 year old either. Re-Re always wore crazy outfits. Literally, sometimes a red, white, and blue tutu combined with an orange halter top. It didn’t matter. Everything always looks good on her, even if the outfit was cray. You’d see Re-Re in her insane halter top and tutu number and she’d stretch out her arms to hug you like she’d been waiting to see you for the last ten years.
Now, I would hug Re-Re and my next question would always be, “Do I smell?”
To which Re-Re would respond…
“What is wrong with you? Stop saying you smell. You never smell.”
“Yeah, but that’s probably why I don’t smell because I’m so worried about it,” I’d respond.
“You’re crazy,” she’d say. “Now come in for another hug.”
And the process would repeat itself.
I don’t know what it is about my olfactory paranoia. It has always bothered me. Sure, you can’t help having a musky scent every once in a while. Say, if you spent the day at the gym, then yoga, then 3 margaritas, and then a garlic-onion bake-a-thon. I’m not saying I’d ever do that, but I am saying such a schedule might make your pores beg to spill out some of those noxious toxins.
Maybe the smell-thing bothers me because I equate smelling with being out of touch a little bit. I remember a gym teacher/ coach that I loved. She was such a great person, but she had horrid breath. I remember thinking, “Come on. Pull yourself together!” Meanwhile, she was probably totally together. I think she owned a home or two in her early 20s. I could never figure out how the real estate agent and the banker could get close enough to her to close the deal.
Then there’s the celebrity, Rosie O’Donnell. Wifesy says that she’s heard through the “lesbian grapevine” that Rosie has some hygiene issues. This troubles me. Rosie comes from a similar background as myself (minus the Latina part…wait, maybe it’s my Latina part that helps me not to smell?) and if she smells like a two-day-old, yogurt dip after its sat in the sun, then what does my future hold?
Maybe it’s aging. Forget those ladies who are 89 years old and still get up to put on their makeup. Makeup won’t do you a stitch of good if everyone can smell your old lady crotch from 4 blocks away. My lower back hurts after a day of vacuuming my less than 800 square foot loft. How in the hell am I going to make sure my lady parts smell like I’m 20 and virginal when I’m 90? Or am I going to have to pay someone to do it? I can just see myself paying some 20 year old queen to spray my tender bits with lilac water, as a last resort stop on my dignity train. I’d get my bits glazed with a floral scent every alternate Wednesday, all so I can go and enjoy an hour of coffee and game time in the common room before falling asleep. The queen gets off of work. He goes to the gay bar where he laughs about spraying some old bitch’s ne’erdowells to a large group of rapt homosexuals. I just can’t take it.
Thankfully, right now I have my other half, my Wifesy, to say, “That’s intolerable. Go and scrape off the tartar.” Or, “Love, you have a chin hair, right there. Let’s take care of that.” But, what will time bring? Will I become an untouchable? I suppose I’ll always have to have decent friends. Those type of friends who tell your something is up. They help you change and then do the decent thing – PRETEND LIKE THE MOMENT NEVER HAPPENED.
Those are the best people there are.
Now, everybody, come on in for a hug.
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