Elementary school provided me (plenty of) opportunities for embarrassment. Once while coloring neatly arranged pieces of a friendly alligator, my first grade teacher whisked her class out to recess, giving me no time to deposit that morning’s breakfast. To shorten a long story, on the playground, the aid denied my request to scurry into the school’s bathrooms.
She left me no choice; I defecated myself.
As recess ended, I casually returned to class as if fecal matter wasn’t cramming my slacks like stuffing in a turkey. Later, choosing to bear the placental aroma no longer, my teacher dispatched me to the nurse’s office, where I got a pair of clean clothes and a ticket home.
My smelly-butt tango taught me that exuding pleasant bodily fragrances is the primary method of meeting and keeping friends, since many began treating me like a walking sewer. Following such a life-shaping experience, I began using underarm deodorant, knowing full well that flowery redolence was a full-body procedure. The product has remained a necessary luxury in my life.