My day started off with the funky towel. You know the one. It’s the one you pull out of your linen closet and as you start to dry off from your shower, you realize that it was a SOURED towel and now your freshly scrubbed, squeaky clean, Dove-smellin’ self reeks.
Of funky soured towel.
And I was going to the massage therapist today and I did not want to reek. So I squirted on massive amounts of Beautiful to mask the stench, wondering if that would weird out my therapist because, really, who wears perfume to the massage therapist? And then I didn’t want her to see my dry winter legs, so I reached for the lotion only to find out that I had run out of the unscented kind and only had the boldly obnoxious Midnight Pomegranate that did nothing to enhance my personal bouquet. Of L’Air du Pee-uwww.
Then I decided that I wouldn’t wear makeup because sometimes they do that little massage-y thing on your face that smears your makeup off, so I went au-naturel except for that I was so pale that I decided maybe a little lipliner would work. Only the lipliner looked a little dry and cakey, but instead of topping it with a little lip gloss (which might be sticky), I used chapstick. And was it unscented chapstick? Oh no, dear reader. It was kiwi-lime. In all its tropical glory.
Arriving in a heady cloud of toxic fumes at the salon, I am immediately greeted by the sight of someone I know sitting in the reception area. I never run into acquaintances in town unless I look (and smell) my absolute worst. And he’s chatty, so we chat. At close distance. That therapist could NOT get there fast enough.
I was so discombobulated by my friend that I couldn’t quite process what the therapist was saying to me as I walked in the door. I found out about 15 minutes in that I had acquiesced to the gluteus part of the rubdown. I then spent the next 45 minutes trying not to laugh and basically undoing all the relaxation that I went in there for.
Then I went to the craft shop. Which has nothing to do with anything else.
The Stinking End.