I ran out of deodorant last week. I did not get the chance to restock because I live on an island and the island was, this weekend, very much like Stephen King’s dome. I did make it to the mainland for a little while, but the experience created so much drama that I entirely forgot to pick me up some new Old Spice. Which is kind of ironic, as the stress of leaving the island caused Nixonian levels of perspiration.
Anyway, I work out in the middle of the day, so I grabbed my wife’s travel deodorant. I shouldn’t have. It’s a baby blue stick. It’s not the same colors as a Budweiser can or a battleship. That’s how the marketing people warn you. Marketing people are always there to help but I didn’t listen.
I didn’t listen because in my high stress job as a writer I need decent deodorant at all time. I never know when I’ll be forced to say something witty or tell someone to use ‘whom’ not ‘who’. Like EMTs, back-up quarterbacks or hostage negotiators – you never know when you’re going to be needed; you just need to be ready. The constant state of readiness causes its own stress. Which leads to the need for deodorant. Which, presently, smells like all the Care Bears belched.
Now I think I smell girly. Which causes even more stress. Which produces even more light and flowery scent. If you rode a unicorn through a field of wildflowers, you might have I idea what my office smells like. I hope to God nobody comes in here and ask ‘effect’ or ‘affect’. We’ll end up on the ground like Dorothy and friends in the poppy fields.