Day XLIV: Deodorant

It's a damn good thing I sit so far removed from everyone in my office. Because, seriously, I am a sweaty betty today. It's like, alright, self, you put deodorant on every single day of your life. You know that you need to do it. You know that you sweat like a salamander in every single situation and that it is 100% necessary for you to mask that smell with something more pleasant. Yet, at least once a week, you forget to uncap-and-lift-and-spread.

For some reason, that smell is just the icing on the cake that is this hectic day. I am wearing my favorite shirt. My favorite jeans. My hair is right. My body's right. And this face is to die for. But you take one whiff of any region surrounding the vicinity of the pits? Child, back up, and hide yo' kids, hide yo' wife. It's a certified danger zone. And it ain't cute.

You might be wondering why I would feel the need to write about my lack of personal hygiene today. And you would be right to wonder. It's weird topic. 

The reason I'm detailing this little account of my life is because of these little creatures:

Sorry for the terrible quality

See those lovely matching track suits and impossibly curled ringlets? Clock the way those legs are crossed and those heads are held high? Note the mountains of yogurt and buckets of toppings. Do you get it now? Can you guess what has me so concerned?

Child Beauty Pageant Contestants.

Thousands of them.

IDS was swarming today, buzzing with flightless little terrors caked in makeup and pride, paraded by proud and shameless parents (and the occasional bored-but-probably-gay-and-interested-in-the-cosmetics little brother.)

I stumbled across said hoard of child-demons outside of 1-2-3 Sushi and Yogurt Lab this afternoon. Not only did I instantly fear for my life, but I felt myself start to perspire in a way that I imagine is quite similar to that phrase "a whore in church." Except it was more like a whore with a venereal disease and a drinking problem about to attend a catholic mass where the priest it also her AA counselor  as soon as she's through with her trip to the abortion clinic. 

And then one of the little girls noticed. She sniffed the air like a stray who just caught a whiff of dumpster outside an Italian bistro. When she locked eyes with the dripping, frothing sweat monster staring out of my armpit, she pointed and said, AND I QUOTE, "Look at that smell!"

I'd like to think she was just screwing up her language, but I know that's not the case. She could literally see the smell creeping from behind the slightly darker purple blot beneath my arm. And it scared her. 

Humiliated, I scurried around the corner by US Bank and all but sprinted back to the Lumber Exchange Building, thinking all the while: I hope that little brat trips during her talent.