My Worst Coronapocalypse Purchase So Far

So far, this is my worst purchase of the Coronapacalypse. I say so far because I want to allow myself the license to click a few more foolish and impulsive BUY NOW buttons in the coming days. That seems pretty likely given the fact that we’re picking up a Great Dane puppy two days from now and she is in desperate need of a faux fur bed, a blingy pink collar and a chew toy shaped like a champagne bottle (‘Chavignon Bark’ made from ‘Nappaw Valley’ grapes).


I’m kidding of course. I bought all those things weeks ago. And yet, this acquisition is the dumbest.


To understand why I made this purchase you must first know Disturbing Menopause Fact #367: menopause makes you smell different. I don’t mean your sense of smell is different like when you’re pregnant and you can smell an olive from six blocks away. I mean your person physically smells … different. Unpleasantly so.


Remember in your high school years when you’d get home after a particularly stressful hair day or a day wherein THAT guy/gal made eye contact with you and you’d take refuge in your bedroom, drop your backpack on the floor and take a deep relaxing breath only to discover that you smelled of pure, unadulterated Whataburger? For those of you not blessed with the necessary Texas experience to understand that reference, “Whataburger” can be loosely translated to slightly spoiled onions mixed with a speck of garlic and a modicum of what I believe a musk ox’s diaper would smell like if a musk ox wore diapers. (God forbid you ever left a Whataburger in your car. If it happened in August, you had to sell that car to unsuspecting honey badgers, there was just no coming back).




Anyway, this fucktacious odor is now, occasionally and utterly at random, the scent I give off on a casual day of self-isolation spent doing nothing more strenuous than refilling the humidifier. It doesn’t matter how much clinical strength deodorant or pricey perfume I wear, nor how much Bath & Body Works eucalyptus tea-scented body cream I slather on; some days, for no reason at all, absolutely nothing works.


So you can imagine my delight when I saw a really, really funny and engaging ad for a new deodorant that claims to fix all your stenches in all your places: pits, privates, feet, everything. I don’t want to tell you the name because, like I said, the commercial was hilariously creative and charming and I still want very much to believe in this product. The part of me that got a degree in advertising thinks it’s not fair to shit on this company’s reputation when it might just be that my hormonal holocaust is too much for any deodorant. Maybe it works for everyone else, just not me. They swear it even works on teenage boy junk-funk for fuck’s sake.


But the fact of the matter is, this brilliantly advertised product (of which I most certainly did NOT buy one of every scent and size, sight unseen) not only doesn’t work for me, but I think it might actually be making things worse. The Great Dane keeps giving me the side eye and leaving the room in disgust.


So. I guess it’s back to the only thing that comes close to working: one of those salt crystals that my patchouli-soaked Boulder brethren are so fond of. Because of course a fucking rock is effective but not the all-natural, hypoallergenic, aluminum free deodorant that’s guaranteed to wipe out construction worker foot foulness. I feel so powerful.

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