The Stinking Rose
What’s a Girl to Do When Prince Charming Smells Bad…
What the fuck is that smell? I’m three dates in with a guy who’s not my type, the ultimate compliment because my type has historically been the love child of Ted Bundy and Randall Boggs from Monsters, Inc. - the creepy purple guy for those of you who aren’t as intimately familiar with this cinematic masterpiece. I digress. He’s funny, charming, and easy to talk to. His style is elevated without being preformative. He has a great job and drives a nice car. There is just one little problem punching me in the face like a runaway freight train… WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL?
It’s not a rhetorical question. I have the nose of Toucan Sam. I can smell anything and everything from a mile away, but I’m unable to identify the source of this sensorial assault. I attempt to discreetly sniff in a 360 around his black leather car. Is it him? Is it the car? For the love of God, it can’t be me?! He must have gym clothes in his back seat? Maybe a dead body in the trunk? I could get past that, but I can’t get past this smell.
I acknowledge that I run the risk of being labeled a stone-cold bitch by writing this. I am definitely the problem, but what’s a girl supposed to do when Prince Charming smells bad? The question swirled around in my head as he drove us to an overpriced dinner at an east side hot spot. Like an episode of Jeopardy I fantasized about freezing time to phone a friend, perhaps they could arrive at my side to confirm or deny if we could get past this. I’m not writing all of this to shame or humiliate this sweet soul but to pose the question: what do we do when there is a catch that can’t be overlooked when we meet a great guy?
I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and assumed that this had to be, as Malcolm Gladwell so eloquently waxed poetic about - an outlier experience. There was no way a man could make it well into his 30s without ANYONE telling him that there was something seriously disturbing about his aroma. Despite all of this, I have always lacked the ability to leave any stone unturned so I agreed to see him again.
The next time we got together, instead of holding my breath as butterflies wreaked havoc on my insides, I held my nose, bracing for impact. Though social norms wouldn’t allow me to hold tight to my literal nostrils as if I were jumping into a murky pool, I tapped into my inner neuroscientist and harnessed selective attention and cognitive reframing to protect myself from the possible impending stench.
I had pleaded with the tarot gods and promised to cash in some karma coins with the universe, the worst still prevailed. Out of his car and within the crisp fresh air of dusk, it became clear that this scent could only have one source. Not even the prospect of future nerve adaptation could save us from this. According to science, your brain naturally blocks out constant background odors over time, a phenomenon often referred to as going “nose blind.” Your brain downregulates the signal once it decides the smell isn’t a threat, but I couldn’t picture a world where my sensitive sensory system didn’t find this “unique” combination of pheromones and body odor to be a very serious threat. The kind of threat that affects national security. How had TSA not warned him that his lack of antiperspirant or a signature cologne compromised the safety of the crew and all 8.3 billion souls on board this spinning rock?
The biggest issue wasn’t the smell but my inability to address it. The mission was quickly deemed impossible, and I was certain that Ethan Hunt would agree. How are you supposed to tell someone, let alone a grown man that you barely know, that they smell bad? It sounds childish and insane, but it didn’t feel like my job or place.
A damned-if-you-do and dead-if-you-don’t situation.
I told myself addressing it was sure to create a life long complex. I was being selfless, maybe even brave by saying nothing at all. I would know, once after devouring a garlic-loaded pesto sauce, a date unexpectedly kissed me and then asked if I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet today. We were doomed from that moment forward. Though I knew this unfortunate mishap was the cause of over 15 cloves of freshly chopped garlic, I was never able to move past the fear of him thinking my breath actually smelled like that. I started pecking him on the lips like a conservative grandma and brushing my teeth five to six times a day when we were together. I couldn’t condemn this man to that same never-ending spiral of scent sensitivity. Instead I would leave him in ignorant bliss.
“If you can’t address a minor offense like smell, how will you ever be able to address the stuff that really matters within partnerships?” said the angel on my shoulder.
“You’re a smart, successful, funny, cute girl. Should you really have to settle for a guy that literally stinks?” said the devil on my other.
Getting the ick was unavoidable, despite my best efforts to soldier on. Thirty seasons into the Truman Show of my life, I’m trying to trust that rejection is protection in all its forms. Not because I’ve become enlightened, but because every time I’ve ignored a warning sign, it has eventually returned wearing a larger and much scarier costume.
Perhaps if he were the one for me, my nose would have detected sweet notes of vanilla bean where I smelled the unmistakable undertones of whatever liquid drips from an overstuffed garbage bag full of last week’s leftovers. Our bodies often know something long before our minds are willing to admit it. Learning to trust those instincts feels like learning a new language late in life -hard to do but obnoxiously impressive once you become fluent.
Do you feel calm? Does your blood pressure spike? Are you unsettled or at ease? Does he smell like the peony section at Trader Joe’s or like that dude who sat too close to you on the subway during a New York heatwave?
I’m learning to trust my body and, more importantly, question the stories my mind has spent years rehearsing. The ones that insist I should be grateful for any affection that comes my way. The ones that tell me I am difficult to love and therefore have no business being selective about who I let into my life.
The problem wasn’t that “prince charming”smelled bad. The problem was that with every unignorable incompatibility I consistently attempt to convince myself that it doesn’t matter and that I should settle for something that doesn’t feel right in my bones.
Maybe growing up is realizing that compatibility isn’t something you negotiate yourself into. Maybe it’s learning to trust the voice that says no before you’ve gathered enough evidence to defend why.
And maybe the right person won’t require me to hold my breath.
On the off chance that the sweet boy with kind eyes has recognized himself in this essay, please know I am sending you nothing but love, luck, and a short list of products that may very well alter the trajectory of your life. Your future wife will thank me. Frankly, so will everyone else.
Lume Acidified Odor Control Body Wash
Harry’s Extra-Strength Odor Sweat Control Antiperspirant
Dude Wipes
CYKLAR Crescent Perfume Oil
CYKLAR Glycolic Acid Exfoliating Body Spray
Till next time,