Nasally Retentive

There is a strange smell that I can't seem to shake.
It appears to be following me.
It's in my bedroom.
It's in my car.
It's in my school bag.
It's generally in my nostrils.
It's not exactly a stench.
But it's decidedly unpleasant nonetheless.

I've liberally applied perfume to my scarf, which I keep pulling around my face to mask the odour.
I find myself checking the soles of my shoes.
Even though it's not that kind of smell.
I've taken to chewing gum and have committed to visiting the dentist at the earliest opportunity that presents itself.
Just in case, (I am loathe to even whisper it), it might just be my breath.
What a prospect!

I've seen the future.
And it's gummy.
There are dentures in a glass.
Polygrip's a fixture.
If you'll forgive the obvious pun.

When I sit with the other mature students in the 'Arts Café', I observe their body language in my presence.
They are leaning back in their chair; arms folded.
In an unambiguous way they are shrinking away from me.
I'm starting to get paranoid.
When no one's looking I affect an arm thrown behind my head in a casual manner that allows me to surreptitiously sniff my armpit.
It may not be the freshest but it still doesn't explain the whiff.
I swiftly cross and uncross my legs, inhaling on the updraft created by the speed of my thighs.
There's a certain recognisable muskiness alright, but, thankfully, it is not the source of the olfactory offence.
Despite being a student, I can assure you, I shower every morning.

I leave college today with an indefinable grubbiness hanging over me that leaves me feeling extremely uncomfortable.
I can't wait to get home and have a bath.
I ponder the fact that showering may not be sufficient ablution to really clean between the toes.
A good soak of the tootsies may be all that's required to rid myself permanently of this malodorous affliction.

As I sit in rush-hour traffic on the M7, I reach into my handbag for some chewing gum.
A recent precautionary purchase.
I manoeuvre its contents with racoon-like skill until my hand finds something unexpected that I can't quite place.
It's rock hard.
And appears to be wrapped in tissue paper.
I pull the mysterious object from the depths of its faux-leather pouch.
It's an autumnal 6pm and the light is fading fast, so it takes a few seconds for the full horror of my discovery to become clear.
Whatever it is has a blue-ish green tinge.
And stinks like hell.

Just before the bumper of my 2005 Kia makes contact with the 2010 rear of the BMW in front of me, I hit the brakes hard.
I avoid impact by inches.
I am furious.
With myself, of course.
There in my lap, glowing iridescently from the safety of its paper napkin, is the moldy object of my solitary mass catering protest of the previous week.
That bloody bread roll!
In yeasty defiance it stares up at me.
I know it has no eyes, but there are 2 large blue spots on its surface that fulfil the simile.
And they burn into me in a way that makes me feel contrite.

I must admit I am somewhat consoled by the confirmation I have no major inherent body odour issues.
Nor have I contracted the STD I was suddenly starting to fret I may have acquired at the hands (or more precisely, penis), of San Fran Man.
The source of the fetid funk is now identified as that which is seen by many as the source of life.
Leaven forbid.
But it is also the source of my unexpected disgust.
Damn my principles!
Why did I insist on taking that bread roll?

Prone as I am to beating myself up over 'stuff', for there is no one quite as adept, I resign myself to an evening of self-flagellation.

Pass the Cilice.

©Alacoque Doyle