The other day I was unable to stop and smell the roses (don’t worry, I’m not referring to Ringo Starr’s album) popping up like popcorn in Elizabeth Park, because I’m so industrially allergic to them. I’m also highly allergic to most other flowers, dust, pollen, yeast, pine trees, perfume, cigarette smoke, anything and everything scented (think shampoo, sunblock, lotions and emollients, makeup, and, oh Lordy, a list so long I’ve only just begun to describe it), as well as, in the past few months, alcohol, of all things (it triggers an instant migraine so painful that if I described it, you’d get one, too).
I tried to imagine myself smelling them while wearing my old, rubber nose plugs, which rest in peace in my underwear drawer in their little plastic container (since 1964!) to block out their luscious (yet sadly toxic-to-me) odor, but I couldn’t, because I was too busy sneezing and itching my eyes out. I had to race home like Atalanta and swallow a Claritan (which I forgot to take before heading outside). It’s a good thing I didn’t actually try out the nose plug thing, though, because if I had, I’d probably have been arrested for insane, rather than indecent, exposure.
Since I am no longer able to literally smell things like roses, I started thinking about metaphorically smelling them, especially after my husband challenged me to say and do (he left off think, thank god) only “positive” things for the upcoming month of June. I’m not used to channeling my Pollyannaish, positive side, but since I have 4 cheeks to turn, I chose one and accepted his challenge.
I will be spending the next thirty days burying my Scrooge-like, bah humbug-ness, and channeling my inner Mama Rose. As I aim for hitting the heights, keep your fingers crossed for me as I skip the light fandango, turn cartwheels across the floor, and turn an even lighter shade of pale. I'll keep you posted as I keep myself from going postal.
Let the wild rumpus start.
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