I claimed that title when I was 15, after my Dad shot a skunk square in the pooper. Wind direction and a cruel twist of fate carried the stink cloud through the door, and into the closest room: my bedroom. I had a nice pile of clean clothes in a laundry basket that got hosed with skunk squeezings. When you touch anything that has been skunked, it transfers to absolutely everything. I found this out the hard way. After a while, the nose gets used to it, and all that’s detectable is a faint whiff of eraser rubber. This was not the case for my classmates at school.
“What is that smell?!”
I owned it.
“It’s me! I smell like a skunk’s ass!”
It took about two weeks before I was able to quarantine all of my reeked belongings, and then I was in the clear. Until I pet the cat who had also been sprayed by the skunk who used to be his friend until she took a round of pellets to the ass and decided to become a vigilante. My Dad is a smart man, believe it or not. He was in the habit of dumbing himself down with beer. I get it honestly.
I don’t like to smell bad. I think most people are the same. I may only shower every 2 or 3 days, but I’m also a perfumista so I mask my natural scent with something more pleasant. Showering just got a whole lot more difficult.
I have a tube hanging out of my chest that can’t get wet, and also an incision in my arm that needs to stay dry for a week. The pain isn’t nearly as bad as the anticipation of smelling like a giant block of head cheese until I can properly decontaminate.
I’ve got a novel-sized stack of after care instructions that say NO SHOWERS, but baths are okay? I haven’t taken a bath since I figured out that I need a crane (or a manchild) to fish me out when I get prunie. And just for fun, I’m allergic to the adhesive on the dressings so I’m sore and hella itchy. It’s time to get creative with the saran wrap.
Today sure feels like a Monday. At least the most unpleasant part is over!