I don’t want to gross anyone out, or disturb the squeamish among you, but I have a small confession to make. This morning, I woke up and discovered that I’m out of deodorant. I used the last bit from the previous stick yesterday morning, and I just assumed there was more. There’s always more. I don’t know how it gets there — maybe my wife buys it, or it sprouts on a deodorant tree in the back of the closet, or the Mennen fairy flies in while we sleep to replenish my precious antiperspirant supply. I don’t know, and it doesn’t much matter. Whenever I need deodorant, it’s there. It’s always there.
Except today. Today the supply closet let me down. Oh, it wasn’t empty. There were all sorts of useful trinkets and potions in there — cold medicine, contact lens solution, rubbing alcohol, a big box of those cylindrical ‘back massage’ thingies.
(Why do those things have names like ‘Sandblaster‘ and ‘Mr. Pointypants‘? What the hell does that have to do with having tense shoulders?
Oh. Never mind. I’m sorry I asked.)
But there was no deodorant. So I did what any self-respecting, red-blooded American, desperate husband would do — I used my wife’s.
(As opposed to what a self-respecting, red-blooded American desperate bachelor would do, which would be to find some creative and readily available substitute. Like toothpaste, or flour, or ground-up aspirin. I was single once — I know what goes on. And I definitely prefer the ‘married option’.
Do you know how hard it is to clean half a tube of Aquafresh out of your armpit hair? It’s no picnic.)
Anyway, I didn’t have much of a choice. So I slapped on the sissy Secret sauce. I worried a bit, of course. For one thing, it’s ‘pH balanced for a woman’, right? So naturally I was concerned about the acid burns it might leave under my arms.
(Just to be sure, I glided a little bit on the side of one ass cheek first. The good news is that I didn’t experience any searing pains, and I’ve been able to sit normally all day. But the even better news is that my rear end has smelled like a spring meadow ever since. Jealous much?)
So I guess I got away with it. And it looks like I’ll have to get away with it tomorrow, and maybe the next day, too. I’m not sure exactly when I’ll get to the store to pick up some of my regular stuff, so I may be mooching the feminine stuff for a while.
And speaking of ‘feminine stuff’, I want to be clear that the deodorant grab is just about my limit for ‘borrowing’ personal hygeine supplies from the little woman. I’m cool with cadging Q-Tips from her, assuming she hasn’t used them first. But that’s it.
(I love my wife dearly, but someone else’s wax on the stick you’re about to poke into your head is hardly sexy.)
Oh, and we do use the same tube of toothpaste. Not at the same time, of course — we tried that once, with mixed results. Sure, our breaths were minty fresh, but so were our nostrils, our eyebrows, and much of our chests. Thank goodness we weren’t using electric toothbrushes yet; we could have killed each other. How would that look on the 11 o’clock news?
The deodorant, though, is as far as I’ll go. I don’t sneak into her skin care products, or perfumes, or her collection of exotic fragrant soaps.
(Who comes up with some of these scents, anyway? ‘Freesia Dreams‘? ‘Escape with Lilac‘? ‘Rose Petals at Dusk‘? Come on, ladies — they all smell like grandmas. Get over it.)
In short, I try to stay away from anything that would give itself away as ‘less than manly’, based on scent, feel, or appearance. I borrow only what I need, and what I think I can pull off wearing among my smartass friends. I’m not looking to do any vicarious living through cosmetics here. So no citrusy clarifying lotion, potpourri-scented body lotion, or avocado-oatmeal facial cream. My pores are pissed, but that’s just tough luck. They should have been born on a chick if they wanted all that smelly goop on them.
But I’m a little concerned about the deodorant. It jusr smells so pretty. And now, by association, so do I. Sure, it’s better than the alternative, but it does open me up to raised eyebrows and questioning looks, should anyone catch a whiff of the flowery crap under my arms. I’m gonna try to keep my wings firmly at my sides while I’m wearing the stuff, but I don’t know how feasible that’ll be. What if I have to pull something off a high shelf, or scratch my head, or ‘raise the roof’?
(Hey, it happens. You can never tell when the roof needs a good raising. It usually happens right after the dogs are let out. Be on the lookout.)
Anyway, I’ll do the best I can. I’ll wear the stuff until I can find the time to go buy something more appropriate for someone such as myself. Something musky, perhaps. Spicy. Pizza-scented, whatever. I don’t really care, as long as it’s not something that comes from a fricking garden. In the meantime, I’ve got one or two more days to survive as a ‘Secret guy’, hoping no one catches on and asks me about my ‘perfume’, or whether I’ve got lilacs tucked down my pants or something.
(For the record, I don’t. Nor would I. Tuck lilacs down my pants, that is. Rhododendrons, perhaps. Daisies, sure. Lilacs — no way. What do I look like, Martha Stewart over here?)
So, wish me luck. And for Chrissakes, don’t tell anyone about this. I catch enough crap as it is. I don’t need assholes running around my office calling me ‘ma’am’, or asking what ‘that intoxicating aroma’ could be. Because if they ever find out it’s my hairy armpits oozing out the flowery scent, neither of us is gonna be happy. But only one of us is gonna take heat over it. And I don’t know whether Secret can keep a non-pH-balanced guy dry during that kind of stress. I only know that I never want to find out.Permalink | 5 Comments