It took me over half an hour this afternoon to realize that the nasty stench I couldn’t get away from was coming from my own clothing. I didn’t recognize it right away, because I’d only smelled it once before: in my office coat closet. It was the same disgusting b.o. I’d almost passed out from at 8:am. By 1 pm, the nausea-inducing odor had contaminated my favorite winter jacket.
Don’t ask why I hadn’t predicted the outcome of shutting my clothing into a dark, airless space with a smell far worse than feet. It’s the same non-logic I use with a molding box of strawberries: “it’ll never spread.” Personally, I shower twice a day. So the fact that I could possibly smell like someone who’s taken the winter off from hygiene for water conservation seems as unreal to me as the far-out chance of losing Ted Kennedy’s senate seat.
Ahem.
I find it hard to believe that I can’t say the word “cramps” without fearing a sexual harrassment suit, but people can light scented candles and eat tuna fish sandwiches and microwave eggwhites in an office environment and that’s perfectly acceptable. Granted, I expect to be forgiven for my “colorful” language. But c’mon, people: no one’s going to lose their lunch over an F-bomb.
Tomorrow, after I hang my coat from a tree and let the wind pelt it for a few hours, I’m going to crumple my outerwear into my bottom desk drawer. Wrinkles be damned. Then I’m going to eat dates, raisins, tofu and kidney beans all day long.
Your move, candle-lighting-shower-eschewing coworkers.
