I have a fear. That I smell. As in stink.
I’m not sure why I have this fear. No one has ever told me that I stink. No one has ever acted like I stink.
They’ve never walked up to me and started dry-heaving, or buried their nose in the crook of their arm, or sprayed perfume in my general direction.
I have never caught of whiff of something rank and been like, “Oh that is awful. Oh wait…it’s me.”
And yet, I still fear.
I frequently lift up my arm, thrust my armpit into the husband’s face and say, “Do I smell?”
The husband: No.
Me: Okay, stand right there and sniff as I walk by.
The husband: I don’t smell anything.
Me: What if I walk by really fast. Anything linger after me?
The husband: No.
Me: Oh, what do you know? We’ve been together for ten years. You’re probably used to the smell. You probably like it.
That’s the way it works, doesn’t it? Have you ever walked by two people, one of whom smells awful, and thought, how does the person they’re with stand it?
But they probably don’t just ‘stand’ it. They probably love it. They probably breathe deep and burrow down deep into the folds of their lover’s ass rot.
Are you guys gagging yet?
I have to believe if I did stink, someone would tell me. If not the husband, one of my friends then. I’ve known many of them for a really really long time. We’re pretty honest with each other. Surely one of them would tell me.
But then again, maybe not. I know this woman. We’re not friends, hardly acquaintances, but I see her occasionally. And I talk to her. Unfortunately. She has the worst breath in the history of ever. Like her teeth are rotting. In fact, every time I talk to her I expect to see her teeth start falling from her mouth.
It would be totally inappropriate for me to say, “hey your mouth smells like rotting elephant ass,” but surely someone in her life – a friend, her sister, the pool guy – can tell her (a little more delicately, of course.)
Most of you who read this blog, I have never met. But one day, I hope I will (as I'm sure you do, after reading this). When that day comes, and you get your first objective whiff of me, promise me this: you'll tell me if I stink.
I’ll probably call you a bitch and never speak to you again, but I will finally know the truth and deep down I’ll thank you.