In junior high school health class I was taught that one could smell really bad and just get used to it and you wouldnāt know you smelled any different than anyone else. I think it was supposed to encourage us to bathe from time to time. Anyway, nano I hope that is not the case with you. How do you know your special scent is a good one? Has it been verified by a disinterested expert?
Of course. This is a matter of empirical evidence and report. I am so mortified that you galsād gang up on me like you have. Like, all of a sudden I donāt bathe? Believe me, there wouldnāt be a session would have me if I didnāt. No way Iād brag about THAT.
But then, Iām not like other guys. Iām sensitive. And caring. And yet I still use fewer than three hair products.
I think you have carried out your duty very conscientiouslyāhow does one spell that word? And if he sings and dances like dubhlinn says, perhaps heāll be taking up the whistle one of these days as well.
Oh our poor nano, we are not ganging up on you. We think you are sensitive and caring. We just want to make sure you arenāt deluding yourself or something. You are very charming on the Internet but there are additional concerns in person to person contact as you have demonstrated most ably that you are well aware of. Iām sure we all think you smell real good.
This is true. You really cannot smell yourself to begin with, but after 2 to 3 days, you become utterly unable to smell yourself and completely unconcerned about it. You canāt smell yourself and you canāt smell anybody else, even if everyone is reeky enough to choke the usual well-washed American public. In fact, you kind of start enjoying it.
Although men seem to enjoy it much more than women.
Yepā¦itās those Dublin guys that get me every time it seems. I didnāt know he sings⦠::SIGH!!:: if he werenāt such a rogue, Iād think him to be practically perfect
Thus reminding me that there is something else that goes really nicely with rumply jersey and faded jeans.
Tousled hair, a Saturday-casual growth of beard, and . . . dare I say it? . . . why, yes, I think I just might! . . . anatomy books.
Gorgeous traditional tomes like Clementeās Grayās . . . mmmmmmm! Latin and . . . and . . . whatever other language you want . . . but Latin and big and solid. . . and beautifully done . . .
That is because we are nurses, amar. Nurses! Lovely white starched uniforms, perky little hats with curling wisps of hair escaping those pesky bobby pins, nylon stockings that make those little noises as we hurry down the hall bringing comfort to those in need.
Donāt forget the antique Graflex 3 1/4 x 4 1/4 format camera stored in its original case, gray woolen socks, mahogany chairs with chipped legs, a Golden Retriever asleep by the fireplace, creaking floorboards, trickling drops of rain on the windows, a killdeerās cry, a small glass of Talisker on a low table, a broken wicker fishing creel, a pair of Wellies in the corner, back issues of Wooden Boat magazine, the smell of wet earth, the first blooms of hepaticaā¦
I was thinking more along the lines of white sand beach bungalows with a sea breeze, palm trees, hibiscus, cicadas, bare feet and filmy gauze mid-calf dresses . . . since that is, uh, where I happen to be at the moment . . . but I can see that there may be other possibilities.
Big fire in that fireplace, eh? (I hopeāsounds like itās freezingāIām thinking long johns and three layers of fleece.)
And, erm, those are new gray woolen socks, arenāt they?