This morning I took Meredith to the pediatric ophthalmologist, and that’s a really difficult word to spell. Since we were able to stop patching back in 2011, we see the ophthalmologist only once each year, and every visit is a bit of an adventure—mainly because he shares his office with six other doctors, none of whom are ophthalmologists. This morning the office was full of adults and tiny people and we didn’t have many chair choices. I went with the fabric chair next to the sweaty man and his cranky wife so that my kids could sit next to each other by the television.
I won’t go into Sweaty Man’s family details because I signed a HIPAA form many years ago, and the last thing I need right now is a police car hauling me off to God knows where simply because I’m not following a rule that appeared somewhere in the fine print of that form. (I was pulled over two weeks ago today because although my license plate sticker is on the license plate, it’s actually in the wrong place. I hate the fact that I’m driving around potentially creating work for police officers, but with that said, it really *did* seem that this particular university officer didn’t have much else going on. (I freaked out a little when he turned his lights on, and to get off the road I chose to pull the wrong way onto a one way street—giving him a bonus ticketing opportunity. Thank God I didn’t have beer in the car, or I probably would have cracked one open before telling him about the dead guy in my trunk who I just prostituted and murdered (in that order, obviously), if “prostituted” can be considered a verb. I’m breaking Every Single Rule over here.))
Anyway. The sweaty man was sweaty (as they say), and as the perspiration dripped from his face, I noticed that he began smelling more and more like cigarettes. It was the most disgusting yet fascinating thing I’ve smelled/seen in years. This guy has smoked so many cigarettes that he has actually BECOME a cigarette. Because the doctor was running late, I was given the opportunity to sit and wonder what has gone into my mouth more than anything else in the past few years. The answer? Delhi’s Chaat! Have I eaten so much of it that it drips from my temples after a run? Sadly, no. My sweaty self smells more like salty lavender disappointment, thanks to Tom’s of Maine.
(The guy running behind me in this photo actually caught up with me five seconds after the photo was taken. He begged me to lower my arms because although my scent was oddly soothing, he found that it was also leaving him feeling very disappointed. I just nodded and whispered, “What you are smelling is my truth.”)
What do I smell like right now? Bath and Body Works Sensual Body Wash and Lotion. (The Jasmine Vanilla scent. Don’t even try to talk me into the Black Currant Vanilla scent. I Will Not Have It.)
Talk to me about your smell. (I hope I’m not weirding you out right now. Wait. Do you hear that siren?!) I once told a friend of mine that without any lotion or deodorant, I sort of smell like toast. She smelled my arm and agreed. Jeff recently told me that people don’t really know themselves as well as they think and that it’s too easy to make your world smaller just because you believe you know your own limitations, when in actuality, you should be challenging yourself to break down those perceived walls. All I know is this: A not-sweaty me smells like toast, but after a shower? Sensual Toast.