Dewpoint Daze continues. Nobody won an Armpit Award at my workplace today, let me tell you. All you had to do was step outside for five or ten minutes, and the egg timer in your armpit went DING! "Deodorant, done!" No Secret, no Speedstick (and yes, I do occasionally wear my husband's pit-stick when I run out because he invariably has five or six new Speedsticks in the closet), no fancy all-natural no-aluminum smells-like-a-sunny-spring-meadow spray -- NOTHING -- stands up to this weather we're having. My office is so cold I'm getting ice cream headaches, and still -- by Noon, I'm schtinkin'. And you know what? So is EVERYBODY else. In my case, it's because I had to carry boxes and boxes of canned goods for the food shelf today, and then haul supplies from my old office to the new one. This necessitated some time outdoors in the festering heat. And in my best friend's car, which has weak air condo (and is regularly used to transport rescued dogs across state lines).
It should be noted however that body odors on others aren't generally a cause for alarm as far as I'm concerned. Exceptions include my kid needing a bath (because he's my kid); and maybe Mike Z, an especially ripe and frequently inebriated homeless guy of whom I am nevertheless fond. No, what worries me is bad breath, but that's a post for another time.
I might also add here that while normal schtinkin' is okay with me, I do NOT appreciate being sweated upon by random strangers. Or not-so-strangers. I make exception when the source of precipitation is someone I'm attracted to, otherwise....not so much.
The guy that repaired our ancient Risograph at church the other day is a good case in point. While plainly a respectable goombah in real life, this guy, we'll call him Paulie, sweat buckets all over my carpet. It's a crappy, nasty, never-shampooed office rug, I'll admit -- but it had several extra dark splotches after Paulie left, EACH time he left. It got worse each time, and I kept turning up the air conditioner for him...a little more...a little more...because the fucking Risograph was giving him such a hard time that he was literally shedding gallons of water-weight before my very eyes. One thing after another went wrong -- he fixed the first problem, only to see another appear, and then another, and then another, and five newly-installed parts later he's still dripping with bewilderment. And muttering curses under his breath. Not very under his breath, because he can see I'm not a nun, just a church secretary. He was a big galoot, and I felt badly for him, hunched over the tiny early-fifties plumbing in our restroom trying to splash a little freshness on himself and just leaving more splotches everywhere. I should have bought him a beer when he finally fixed that sucker. I'm sure he needed one. I found precipitation on the machine, on the counter, on the doorknob...oy.
I have a friend who shall remain nameless here who also sweats copiously, and likes to sweat, and works out a lot as well. The other day we jumped in his car to go get some Dairy Queen, and as I was climbing in I saw what looked like discarded clothing laying on the curbstone, wet as though it had been out in the rain the night before. In our neighborhood this is not so unusual, and I wouldn't have said anything. A needless train of thought altogether, though, since my friend said "yes, that's my clothing drying on the curb, sorry." And I said, "Dude..." I couldn't blame him for not wanting to keep that stuff in his car in a plastic bag, since it was a million degrees outside. He smelled fine, incidentally. His car though...oh, the upholstery odors, when it's a million degrees.
Please note: cigarette smoke NEVER smells good on a person. Ever. Just thought I'd throw that in, appropos of almost nothing. My friend isn't a smoker. My husband is, but there again, post for another time.
Tomorrow's forecast? More schtinkin'.