I cracked open a new-ish stick of deodorant today, and before you get your underthings all in a wad at my addition of “ish” to “new,” it was a stick that I bought for a trip taken a few months ago. I used it while I was out of town, then carelessly tossed aside.
Or so I thought. Turns out the tossing was thoughtful; as I sit at my computer, I am overcome with a stench that can only be described as “shit-nasty.” Unfortunately, it’s all I have, and I’m going to work soon, and I should probably not reek of the charcoal-grill smoke, after-rain, and extreme humidity smells I accumulated on my person this afternoon.
Or should I? Those odors are certainly more pleasant than the one currently radiating in horrific, tear-inducing vapors from my axillae. I’m pretty baffled, actually. The label describes the scent as Fabulously Floral. False advertising, indeed. I’d describe it as more Fabulously Fucked-Up.
And yet, I am stuck. I could thoroughly cleanse any traces of deodorant from my skin, but what happens later this evening, when I am stuck indoors in a building that is essentially full of hot air and steam from the cooking of so many dinners? A quick search of my Mom’s cabinets-upon-cabinets of “spare” soaps, shampoos and razors produced no satisfactory result. I found a stick of some solid with a passably-pleasant aroma but yet: I am wearing a black, short-sleeved shirt to work and have not yet mastered the skill required to pair solid under-arm fragrance with the wearing of dark colors.
So here I am, digging through a plastic baggie of perfume samples that Carynn sent to me as part of one of her famously-random care packages. If that fails me, there’s always the Sample Page in this week’s Macy’s ad to rub on my pits.
Desperate times, friends. Desperate times.