Now, I'm not one to complain. The fact that I have a less than ideal sense of smell has never created mass hysteria for me. It's been a fact that I graciously accept. To be honest, it's actually kind of nice. There are some perfectly nice boys I have dated that have emitted fumes of mass proportions... clearing a room in three seconds flat. Me? Doesn't even phase me. It might even be considered a bonus.
Well, I left my car closed up for about 24 hours this weekend as I was off on a mountain excursion. I returned to it sensing something odd. It was almost as though I caught a whiff of... rancid yogurt? It was some malodorus scent that existed almost as a shadow or a puff of smoke... barely discernible. Faintly perceived. Musty socks, perhaps? I filled my lungs with oxygen... drawing it through nostril and trachea to see if I was mistaken. Something was amiss.
I'm sure any able-nose-ed person could have practically tasted this odor. But I, taking my time driving home, sniffed and snoffed, pondered and predicted. I wondered... is it repulsive? Is it repugnant? Did my dog eat a loaf of banana bread and barf in the back seat? Did he hide it under a sweater? Was it on the seat? On the floor? What frowzy offense exists in my car?
Yes. Frowzy is a word.
Well, here I sit. Pressing finger to keyboard. Arranging letter and word. Manipulating sentence and phrase. And my car smells like a musty porcupine engorged of sauerkraut and frozen yogurt.
Don't just sit there. Go take care of it, You.
No comments:
Post a Comment