I have three stories of odors that were rude, unwelcome, or at least distinctly discernible as such. You decide which was which.
While attending Second Baptist for a year (an exercise in futility), I was wrestling one Sunday with yet another musical-meeting-room scheme when I happened upon the room that used to host my age group's Bible study. This one, however, now reeked of Bengay: It was the plus-50 crowd. "This is not my room!" I muttered and made a hasty exit. I'm not that mature yet!
While arriving at a pro-life banquet this year, I caught a whiff and murmured "I smell Republicans--!" Amazingly enough, I was able to eat a meal, remain in the same room as Tom DeLay delivered one of the final swan songs of his iron rule, and I did not throw up. Am I mature or what?
While approaching the Ocean Star oil rig museum in Galveston this week for a work-related tour, I whiffed the snurgy sea brine that is Galveston's and deliberately chose not to murmur this salty double-entendre: "Smells like seamen!"
Yeah, I just might be finally growing up.