The whole pregnancy-induced ability to smell things that dogs can't track is funny sometimes. Most of the time, though, it sucks.
Jesse ran with the dogs on Friday night. I'm super grateful that he's able to give our doggies some love because, with their super-doggie pit bull strength, I just don't feel comfortable taking them out, even for walks. A squirrel rustling leaves could cause me to become a speed bump with pigtails on Fayetteville Rd. Thanks to Jesse, I'm not worried about my doggies going crazy from the boredom of being house bound for 9 months. When he came home, I asked if we could continue cleaning out the closet in Tyson's room and he agreed. I went upstairs to get a jump start, and soon after, Jesse entered the room. Unshowered. In sweaty running clothes. Socks removed.
Anyone who has been around a person (let's say a MALE) who comes in from hard work outdoors knows that funk. Even the cleanest person (MAN) is going to smell pretty nasty. Multiply that odor by 1000 for a preggy and you understand my predicament. I'm standing in a 3 x 3 closet with a 200lb armpit.
I'm not sure how to play this one. I'm grateful that he runs with the dogs and is helping clean, but if I throw up in the closet it will only prolong the cleaning process. Order him to shower and risk losing his help? Politely spray him with Febreeze when he's not looking? Hang an air freshener from his running shorts? I mention that he could take a shower first because we weren't in a huge hurry to get things done that night, to which he replied that he didn't want to move boxes and get sweaty all over again after showering. The message wasn't getting through.
I'll tough it out, I thought. This whole progesterone poisoning thing is something he can't understand, so I'll just suck it up.
Or not.
I had to retreat. Mission aborted. I busied myself with work in the neighboring bedrooms, but the damage was done. The smell was up my nose, coating my nasal passages, and taking over my body. I was starting to sweat. I was sick to my stomach. I had to go downstairs and huff some Lysol, or garlic, or coffee... anything to get the funk out of my nostrils!
Finally Jesse took a shower and I made a lap around my house, striking my best Statue of Liberty pose with Lysol above my head, finger pressing on the nozzle, until I couldn't smell that outdoor-man-funk any more. When he emerged from the bathroom, clean, and choking on Lysol fumes, I explained to him when was wrong... and he laughed at me! Laughed!! I couldn't even eat dinner that night because of the sick feeling in my guts and he finds humor in the situation.
Perhaps he shows no sympathy because he found out I posted his spandex cowboy picture in my last post. Guess we're even.
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