I am assaulted by smells all day, every day. The universe saw fit to bless me with extremely sensitive olfactory glands. I find it to be more of a handicap than a super power. I suppose if I was trained properly I could work like one of those dogs that can smell disease in people. Or possibly I could sniff out drugs…”Yep, bath salts”. But I don’t think there is much call for humans in that career and I’d  hate to take a job away from a dog anyway. It’s kind of their “thing”.

As far as the hate crime offense goes, my fiancé (a wonderful man in many ways) has this one problem. His gut happens to be sensitive to gluten and and several (many) other foods. He also eats a meal like someone’s going to take it away if he doesn’t finish quickly; he just swallows it whole to save time. Consequently he is prone to some serious bouts of intestinal distress in the form of belching and farting.

You would think he could just steer clear of the foods that upset his digestive system, but so far it seems that those foods do not exist. He tries valiantly to eat healthy foods but sometimes after an especially strenuous workout his body is literally screaming for carbs. Who can blame him? We all fall prey to the siren call of bread products now and then–my own will is overcome by far less exertion.  But he doesn’t just fall off the wagon; he runs, spins, triple-lindy front-flips off of it. Pastries cower in fear when he’s on a rampage. At these times, I like to say that he’s a “gluten” for punishment (feel free to groan at pun).

But it’s MY punishment! Because then the burps and toots begin and my unlucky nose absorbs every gaseous emission. (I’m not even going to go into the startling reverberations that accompany the smells–that’s a topic unto itself.) The absolute worst offense though is the aptly named “Dutch Oven” sneak attack. For those who are fortunate enough to not yet have been on the receiving end, this is a fart that is perpetrated in bed, under the covers, which traps the smell there until someone moves or the covers are otherwise fluffed. I am often innocently reading a book in bed when the vile fumes slither their way into my sensitive nostrils. Appalling. Is no place sacred? “How can you do that to someone that you claim to love?” I cry, as I attempt to fan the malodorous gust back in his direction.

It’s not just gas though, I can detect from across the room when he’s had a particular type of coffee. It exudes from him. Poor guy, it can’t be easy to be under that kind of smell-scrutiny. But I can’t help it! I’d gladly relinquish my unnatural ability to detect the faintest whiff of every unpleasant odor.

Port-a-potties lined up at concerts, an open dumpster, those diaper genies that construct foul sausages out of dirty nappies–I imagine these are all things that the average person takes in stride, but for me they are tormenting. Their odors haunt my nose long after the original stench is inhaled. The roar of the garbage truck sends a cold shiver down my spine if I’m caught on a walk outside. The sanitation specialists seem to be on a torture mission as they follow behind me banging open every lid to expose the devil’s breath within.

A horror of a different sort is the aroma that fills the locker room of my ladies-only gym, where the average age is upwards of retirement. The sickly sweet, floral, powdery essence peculiar to youth-challenged females causes me to contemplate my own mortality. Not the best atmosphere for a rejuvenating workout experience in my opinion.

There are good parts to my overly active olfactories though.  Pleasant smells that conjure a memory can pull me right back into a particular place in time. And I love the good scents that are inherent to Jeb and my daughter–hugging and breathing them in relaxes every muscle in my body. Orange blossoms and gardenias and even the grassy, wet fragrance of the air after it rains are treats that I would be reluctant to give up even an increment of.

So I accept the bad with the good and try not to take too much offense to the odors that are part of my everyday life. After all, I am happily choosing to marry this man and it’s not his fault that I’m cursed with shark-like scent detection. Our vows may have to be amended to: …”for richer, for poorer, in flatulence and in bloat, in nausea and vexation, until death do us part…” but with a little patience and understanding on both of our parts, I think we’ll be okay in the long run.

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