Stink

The past few months are proving to me that I’m losing my sense of smell. And it’s affecting my taste buds, of course so I’m now having to take those “adult” measures to save losing my pleasure in dining. Let me explain. Had the privilege of making s’mores for my mom’s class a few weeks back. On top of s’mores they had those Oscar Mayer hot dogs that, I could bet the right side of my face, are made out of sawdust and chicken broth. I certainly enjoyed processed meat when I was seven, in all of it’s tripey splendor, but now I could probably eek more savor out of a can of plumber’s putty. And heaven knows that isn’t good, sugar or not.

So it makes sense when I would me content with a grilled cheese sandwich as a kid, Dad would be two seats down frantically cutting up garlic cloves, cayenne pepper, and bouquets of foreign spices into his salad, just to wrangle his taste buds into submission, or at least gain the reassurance that they still existed. But now, in my crusade to halt the deterioration of my upper sinuses, or at least squeeze the last ounce of joy out of my paralytic buds, I’ve resorted to similar measures. That’s just a statement of fact…here’s the goal of the story.

I was painfully reminded of my vulnerability today after screwing around with the kiln at school. Whatever was in this asbestos glove I had on had possessed the usually neutral scent of my hand. It made my right hand my enemy more so than usual. It literally had a color, it was a black smell. It wasn’t a typical chemical smell that made your eyes water, and it wasn’t the boulliony sweaty smell of a typically unwashed palm. It moved swiftly and struck many distracting blows during the course of my day.
It was not quenched by the pink lotion soap, the Gojo working man’s soap, or Dial, it just left on it’s own accord about five hours later.