Olfactory Incompatibility
He was just about perfect -- studied abroad and picked up a fancy law degree, amateur photographer with a fondness for old cameras, an optimist but not treacly, ambitious but not unkind. Serious and funny and looked great in a suit. He talked of taking me to a palace for the weekend, and to Tokyo.
The only problem, really, was the way he smelled.
It was a sharp, pungent odor, a masala of Indian spice and sweat that no amount of Jo Malone soap could mask.
I had brought it up before, after half a glass of wine emboldened him to lean over the book I was holding and plot-summarizing to him and kiss me.
"You're probably not aware of it," I later wrote. "I'm worried it may get in the way..."
He wrote back with about as much grace as I've ever seen. He had a bit of a condition exacerbated by the monsoon, he explained.
"It will be resolved the next time we meet. Thank you for being honest ;)"
I couldn't wait for the next time. On the appointed day, I bought a new dress, shaved my legs and lathered myself with expensive Chanel body butter from head to toe.
"I bathed in perfume before this," he said, clutching me close. "Does it help?"
"Not really," I told him, but added that it was okay.
People might just smell different, he said. I had to concede that's true.
--
My ex of eight years entered a room scentlessly. His hair and scalp smelled like chocolate. After football, the smell of his deodorant spray was stronger, and his jerseys reeked of Vicks Vaporub, which he'd apply to his collar to keep his breathing passages open during matches. I miss his smell as much as I miss anything about him.
The one before him smelled of hair oil, while a boyfriend in Miami who played tennis all the time of sunscreen.
My college love smelled of almonds, like Love in the Time of Cholera. My first serious boyfriend, a Marxist-Leninist who often wore the same old t-shirts full of holes, sometimes smelled of old socks, one of the reasons it was not to be. His violent allergy to cats was the other.
--
I'm not perfect. I haven't been spared the burden of bad smells. My Norwegian, German and Irish scent glands have protested at every move south, from Texas to Miami to Monrovia to rural India, never acclimating to my life choices. Sweat pouring down in interviews, even on my wedding day -- my genes betraying me at the most inopportune times.
--
As we lay on our sides unspent, me agreeing to snuggle so that I could face away from his underarms, he said I had beautiful skin. If only my nose, like love, were blind.
The only problem, really, was the way he smelled.
It was a sharp, pungent odor, a masala of Indian spice and sweat that no amount of Jo Malone soap could mask.
I had brought it up before, after half a glass of wine emboldened him to lean over the book I was holding and plot-summarizing to him and kiss me.
"You're probably not aware of it," I later wrote. "I'm worried it may get in the way..."
He wrote back with about as much grace as I've ever seen. He had a bit of a condition exacerbated by the monsoon, he explained.
"It will be resolved the next time we meet. Thank you for being honest ;)"
I couldn't wait for the next time. On the appointed day, I bought a new dress, shaved my legs and lathered myself with expensive Chanel body butter from head to toe.
"I bathed in perfume before this," he said, clutching me close. "Does it help?"
"Not really," I told him, but added that it was okay.
People might just smell different, he said. I had to concede that's true.
--
My ex of eight years entered a room scentlessly. His hair and scalp smelled like chocolate. After football, the smell of his deodorant spray was stronger, and his jerseys reeked of Vicks Vaporub, which he'd apply to his collar to keep his breathing passages open during matches. I miss his smell as much as I miss anything about him.
The one before him smelled of hair oil, while a boyfriend in Miami who played tennis all the time of sunscreen.
My college love smelled of almonds, like Love in the Time of Cholera. My first serious boyfriend, a Marxist-Leninist who often wore the same old t-shirts full of holes, sometimes smelled of old socks, one of the reasons it was not to be. His violent allergy to cats was the other.
--
I'm not perfect. I haven't been spared the burden of bad smells. My Norwegian, German and Irish scent glands have protested at every move south, from Texas to Miami to Monrovia to rural India, never acclimating to my life choices. Sweat pouring down in interviews, even on my wedding day -- my genes betraying me at the most inopportune times.
--
As we lay on our sides unspent, me agreeing to snuggle so that I could face away from his underarms, he said I had beautiful skin. If only my nose, like love, were blind.
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