I have a smelly little secret.
You won't tell, will you? I knew I could count on you. It's not a big deal, really. Not like I'm Molly Shannon as Mary Katherine Gallagher, poking my fingers into my armpits when I'm nervous, and then sniffing them. No, I don't have halitosis, body odor, stinky feet, or feel less than fresh. I don't smell, as in give off a scent. I smell, as in inhale an aroma.
Oh, you might think I like to sniff out fresh-baked cookies, sun-dried sheets, a baby's scalp, honeysuckle on a fence row at dusk, or steaming blades of grass after a summer rain. But you would be incorrect. That's okay. We're all good at different things.
No, I like to take a good whiff of Vicks VapoRub every now and then.
That stuff opens up my nasal passages. It's soothing. Takes away the stuffiness. I stop short of slathering it on my chest. That's for colds. Hard-core congestion. This is just a hobby. A treat. Nor do I use Vicks to coat the bottom of my feet to draw out toxins overnight. That was one of my mom's suggestions. For my boys, not for me. Are you kidding? She looks out for me and offers to sit up all night with me when I'm sick, but the Vicks treatment is sorely lacking from our mother-daughter healing repertoire. Furthermore, I resist scooping out blobs of Vicks and swallowing them. That's what Hick says he used to do, at the urging of his father. Who knew? Guys have their own father-son healing repertoire.
Yes, I'm a Vicks sniffer. In moderation, of course. No need to stage an intervention, though I DO love to hear how much people value my presence on this earth. Which is not me fishing for compliments, just a statement of fact for the eventual 44 oz. Diet Coke intervention that looms on the horizon.
Now excuse me. I have a previous engagement with a squatty blue glass jar.