Body Wash Swinger

Somebody left his body wash in the shower at my gym. Mountain Stream. The body wash, not the gym. And . . . I am not, by nature, cheap. Yes, I’ve been using the same body wash for six years because my sister-in-law gave me a box of samples – but that just proves my point. I do not ration the body wash I brought into the shower. I have literally given the stuff away on occasion – homeless shelter, care packages for our troops, that kind of thing.

I am not particularly adventurous, either. I would take watching a show about the Amazon delta to visiting it any day. I’ve been in same house for 10 years, same job for 21, same wife forever.

Yet, there I was squirting the foreign blue goo into my palm. Couldn’t help myself. I’d never take a sip of someone else’s drink, left on the bar, but I had no qualms about slathering someone else’s soap. I didn’t need the soap, I just wanted to try something new.

And the scent. Owe. Like a mountain stream. Loved it. The Moroccan Spice samples I usually use have long lost their volatiles. It’s like washing with paste. This stuff opened my world.

I get out of the shower, dry off, and this guy comes over and reaches past me, into the stall. He takes his body wash, looks at me for a second and I swear his nostrils flared. I think he smelled the Mountain Spring on me and didn’t know what to do. He’s thinking, is this guy really a soap thief? To which I wanted to answer, no. I just like to mix up a little once in a while. You know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Instead, I said nothing. Another guy at he gym who thinks I’m odd. Ha. Two more and I get a free water bottle.