The smell of grease fat lingers this morning from the previous night’s feast of fish and chips. Tiny whiffs of scent hang in the air like the surprise fun-bags you find at novelty shops. Except rather than discovering fanciful prizes upon opening them, these sacks contain a swift punch to the nostrils. A walloping of the senses.
I hate weird smells. Can you tell? I’m so anal about it. My roommates (and by “roommates” I mean my kids, husband and sister in law) must get SO annoyed with me. I am forever asking, “What is that disgusting smell?” or yelling in top rage mode, “WHY DOES THIS HOUSE STINK ALL OF THE TIME?!”
Sometimes I wonder if it is me that smells. I will slink away to the bathroom and attempt to check my various body parts for ill-smelling indicators but that never works. If the horrendous smells were in fact coming from my person I’d never be able to tell. I would have already become accustomed to my reek. The ripened aroma would have already amalgamated with my skin follicles. I would wear it like a child wears her favorite Halloween costume, for days and remorselessly. I would bathe happily in my stench never quite accepting the dismay I was putting those I love through by simply standing next to them.
This revelation leads me to believe that there still must be something extra that is stinking up my home because I can in fact smell it. I will begin rooting around under furniture, behind tables, like a hog roots for truffles. I am on a quest to find the sought after tang of insubordination. For one beautiful moment I believe the smell might have dissipated. I have opened the windows and currently all I can detect is an unsoiled breeze blowing in. My heart is aflutter by the seemingly mystical properties which have vanquished the horrendous odour from my abode. A single tear drops from my eye. I am free.
However my happiness is in vain. Somewhere in the depth of my senses there is a tingling. It lazily alerts my brain that the smell has not truly left but lays in wait. There is rests. “Soon” it teases as the plot of this ever thickening joke on my senses evolves.
Alas my friends, this is the plight of the sensitive smeller. It is a sad and pathetic tale but one which must be told. So next time you encounter someone whose nose is particularly in tune with their surroundings, remember these words. Have sympathy. Agree that, yes, there definitely is a revolting stink in here. And most of all assist them in their hunt for the aroma in question because, as our sacred scent-detecting mantra goes: A smellers search is never through until the smell is found.