When we were dating, everything about Biggy excited me--his Eddie Munster hairstyle, the way he preened like a girl in front of the mirror, the fact that he ate generic pasta with generic tomato sauce for dinner every night. Even the smell of his sweat turned me on, and I'd go the day or two between our visits without washing my long, frizzy hair, which held the odor like a Motel 6.
Eleven years later, I roll my eyes as he sculpts and cuts his hair every morning. When he asks me--for the eighteenth time--if the sweater he's wearing makes him look like a choreographer, I find it annoying, not endearing. As for his post-game body odor, its allure wore off sometime during a seven-mile hike on our Costa Rican honeymoon, when my morning sickness kicked in. Since then, I have purchased every extra-extra-ultra-max-manly-man-goat-herder-strength deodorant on the market, but nothing can beat it down.
To make matters worse, he comes home from working out or riding his bike, takes a shower, and dries off before his skunk glands have stopped producing the stink. I can walk into the bathroom and be knocked down by the stench wafting off the towel rack.
And this morning, I took a CLEAN towel, fresh from the dryer, and hung it next to the tub. When I got out of the shower, I grabbed it and gave my hair a good rubdown before starting on my body. By the time I got the towel belly level, I could smell that rancid chicken-soup aroma exuding out of my damp head.
Now, what would Heloise say about that?