My surgeon warned me that, due to my inability to move my arm, my underarm might get a little musky. Who he really should have warned was anyone who spends time with me. Smeller may be the feller, but we never think we smell as good or as bad as we actually do so I do not ignore my surgeon’s warning. I try to stay on top of my stank by performing sniff tests and, subsequently, sticking (and sometimes leaving for a while) disposable cleansing wipes under my arm. Without doing this, I’m pretty sure that, if I could raise my arm, I could wake the dead.
The other day, I took a bath, scrubbed my armpit as good as I could, then attempted to blow it dry with the hair dryer. After that, I shook some baby powder on a bath towel and held the towel under my arm for a bit and thought, “Genius.” I then walked to the store and by the time I walked home I thought, “Stinky.” So, I pulled out the disposable cleansing wipes. It’s not easy being me.
I probably would have just let the musky scent permeate if I was staying home alone, but my neighbor had offered to take me to a movie so I thought I should return her kindness with good hygiene. After the movie, she asked if I had time to visit her friend who just had surgery. I, of course, did.
Her friend’s husband opened the door, invited us in, and told us she was home, but in the bathroom. A few seconds later the bathroom door opened and she walked out with her right arm casted and a large piece of yellow styrofoam with a couple of air holes surrounding it. We commiserated together until her daughter walked in the door and started laughing at the sight of the two of us together – her standing in front of me with her right wing broken and me standing behind her with my broken left wing. Two musky tiers.