My nose is on FIRE
I smell everything. I am The Wolverine—when you come up behind me I KNOW YOU ARE THERE. I CAN SMELL YOU. YOU WEAR TOO MUCH COLOGNE. OR THE LAVENDER-CITRUS BODY WASH THAT YOUR AUNT GOT YOU ‘CAUE SHE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO GET YOU, I CAN SMELL THAT, TOO, AND IT’S AWFUL. IT’S STICKING A LEMON RIGHT UP MY NOSE AND SQUEEZING SO THE JUICE BURNS LIKE ACID AND I SORT OF WANT TO DIE, PEOPLE.
Other smells that since becoming pregnant have made me want to die are (in order of disgusting-ness):
Cigarettes.
I’m an Each to Their Own kinda girl. If you want to smoke, fine, have at it, it’s your body blah blah blah and I don't have to live with you and I, for the most part, avoid places where smoking's legal but people, I have super-human senses right now and public places are, well, PUBLIC, so when you smoke on the sidewalk I can taste it in my pores as though you’re ashing in my mouth and when you’ve just had a cigarette and you come talk to me, you f’ing reek and I want to puke all over you.
Gas
Christopher has to fill up the car. I can’t even deal.
Garlic
We were out for brunch at one of my favorite breakfast spots, and as we passed the kitchen I got a faceful of the garlic and had to rush to the bathroom. When I came out of the stall after a very long, loud visit, there was a girl at the mirror putting on lipgloss and she gave me THE LOOK. Not a look like Pity-the-Pregnant Lady but either A. she thought I had bulimia or B. that I couldn’t hold my liquor, both of which are untrue and offend me deeply. I am NOT Bulemic! And I most CERTAINLY can hold my liquor (although, obviously, I’m currently out of practice). I wanted to give some high and mighty speech about how one should not judge others in a ladies restrooms, especially when one is dressed as 1985 as this girl was, but I kept it to myself. Because maybe she was looking at me ‘cause she liked my shirt and I took it the wrong way ‘cause I have hormones dripping out my ears.
Coffee
This one saddens me because I really love coffee—smell, taste, all of it. I also love the ritual, that morning cup, cue the Folgers commercial where the woman curls up on the window seat with her mug and inhales deeply, looking out into the misty morning and smiling contentedly. That used to be me, but now the smell—the lovely, wonderful smell of lovely, wonderful coffee—makes me want to climb the walls. So poor Christopher has to go out the coffeeshop in the morning. Because we just can’t make it in the house. If you are pitying him as you read this (which you should—I’m not easy to deal with in the morning NOT pregnant WITH coffee) then you should give him an empathetic smile and a Starbucks gift card the next time you see him. You could give me a Starbucks gift card, too, ‘cause the doctor says this smell-thing should be going away soon, at which time I’m going to start BATHING in coffee.
But probably decaf. This kid doesn’t need to partake of my usual caffeine intake.