I bought a new pair of jeans from LaneBryant.com a week or so ago. I ordered them online because I just can’t drag myself to the Lane Brant store in the mall because I can’t willingly send myself into a location that makes my skin peel back from my bones.
The jeans showed up on my doorstep the day before yesterday, and I wore them without first washing them.
NOTE: Don’t EVER do this.
Dimitri comes home from work and we have a tender newlywed moment when he rests his head on my lap. Awwww How sweet. Except that Dimitri screws up his nose and yanks his head out of my lap and says “your pants smell like old people.” Now, husbands and boyfriends everywhere, take note: you have to know that it’s not good to have your nose near a gal’s crotch and jerk upright to inform the gal that her “area” (be it pants or otherwise) smells like old people. Trust me fellas, it’s a no-win situation.
Dimitri tells me that the jeans were probably stored with moth balls. I’ve never smelled a moth ball in my life, but apparently they smell like my jeans. Up until Dimitri’s crotch-smelling venture, I hadn’t really noticed anything untoward about the smell of my new jeans. Since he mentioned something, however, the smell magically amplified so that it was all I could smell.
We go to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that night. So now my jeans smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts (from others, not me.)
The next day (yesterday) I was supposed to go to lunch with my grandmother. I got busy in the morning, and didn’t have a chance to wash my jeans before heading out. No problem, I say, I’ll just rub my jeans with a few dryer sheets. Now my jeans smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his eyes ALWAYS been red?)
I continue to get dressed, made-up, and otherwise primped and polished (I am meeting with my fastidiously well-kempt Nana after all. She wrote the book on never perspiring in 116 degree heat and always having a fresh coat of lipstick on) I set out towards my VW death-mobile. While bending down to put my shoes on, however, I do take a whiff of the ol' pants: Nope, still too much old people. I don’t have time to change, so I run upstairs and Febreeze myself. Now my pants smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his eyes ALWAYS been beady?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
I head out the door and hightail it to The Cheesecake Factory. We have a pleasant lunch, but I can’t really focus on my factory burger since I’m constantly eyeing my grandmother to see if she notices the HORRIBLE COLLECTION OF SMELLS coming from her granddaughter. She says nothing which means one of two things: a) she smells nothing (she is 84, how sensitive can the nose still be?) or b) she smells my pants concoction and is too genteel to mention it.
I finish lunch and head over to my girlfriend Nicole’s place to visit her, her new-ish baby Dax, and her spaniel, Pete.
Nicole is sunny and bright as always. Dax is well-mannered and handsome, and the dog is, well, a dog. Nicole hands Dax off to me, and Dax immediately starts whimpering. I know why. He manages to spit up a little (not that I can blame him. He is sitting on my pants, after all.) So now my pants smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his claws ALWAYS been sharp?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch (as if)
-Sour breast milk
We gab for a few hours, and Nicole doesn’t mention my pantaloon-olfactory mess (bless her.) She gives me home—baked cookies (who am I to refuse?) and Pete, the dog, won’t take his eyes off me. Think of it from his perspective. Here I come, an acid trip of smells for a super-sensitive dog nose, AND I have a COOKIE. How could he NOT drool on me, really? So now my pants smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Has his head ALWAYS spun around like that?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
-Sour breast milk
-Alpo drool
Her husband Ryland comes home early, and she gets a phone call, two events that let me slink into the guest bath and try something new. Perusing the countertop I plan my next layer: hand soap won’t do much of anything, the potpourri would look silly stapled to my pant leg, but a-ha! Bath and Body Works Room and Linen Spray (Fall Sunset, or some such). So now my pants smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his eyes always rolled back into their sockets?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
-Sour breast milk
-Alpo drool
-Martha Stewart’s bed sheets (Fall Sunset)
I have to leave Nicole and Ryland’s house to go teach. My students, not surprisingly, don’t want to sit too close to me. There’s a good six feet between my pants and anyone else. I manage to accidentally write on myself with a nasty Expo marker, so now my pants smell like:
-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Why do I continue to buy him?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
-Sour breast milk
-Alpo drool
-Martha Stewart’s bed sheets (Fall Sunset)
-Expo Dry Erase Markers (The red, extra stinky ones)
I make it home and am pants-less before I hit the top stair. The pants go directly into the washer. When Dimitri comes home about an hour later, he finds me in bed, pants free.
He thinks that I did something special for him. The fool.