body odor and a black eye.

I’m just going to write frankly for a moment, if you don’t mind.

Smells.

They effect me. They highly effect me. Both positively and negatively. A guy who smells good? It’s over. Okay, it’s not over. But I don’t mind breathing next to him. And I don’t mean he has to bathe in cologne. No, actually–that comes off as a little desperate. But a guy who takes care of himself. Regularly employs soap and things like that. That can be real real nice.

On the other end of the spectrum, however, is a guy who just. plain. stinks. Like tonight, for instance. There was a new guy training with us in capoeira. And his scent filled the whole room. It’s a big room, guys; it was powerful stuff. Powerful body odor. And I realize it’s cultural and a matter of perspective and all that. Like, if this blog was written by my dogs, I am sure there’d be rave reviews on here about how wonderfully pungent the new guy smells. But my dogs also like to roll in feces.

That’s their perspective; this is mine.

The thing is, his body odor was so strong that it was a little cloying, even. It made my friend gag. And pull out her perfume and try to spray down the room. Which made me laugh.

But I didn’t laugh long because then I got kicked in the face. HARD in the face. And then I was holding my eye and someone was getting me ice and I started crying because a). it hurt like a mofo, b). I felt really stupid and was embarrassed, and c). that guy stunk so bad and maybe that was part of the reason why I didn’t scheva the right way, resulting in my friend kicking me in the face.

I mean, maybe.

The stinky guy was actually nice enough, though. As I was sitting in the corner, holding ice to my swelling eye and crying out of the other one, I could see him walking towards me, looking concerned. But then my professora barked at him, saying, “Let her be! She’s hurting, so please just leave her alone. Get back to your training.”

I could have kissed her.

Because he, along with his odor, receded back to the other side of the room while I was left to cry and breathe in peace.

Okay, honestly, me getting kicked in the face was not really the stinky guy’s fault. But our whole room smelling like Jabba the Hutt’s armpit was. And that totally bothered me.

Cause like I said: smells highly effect me.

“Did you give the stinky guy your number?” my friend Leao asked me, making fun of the way I sometimes innocently give guys my number, believing that they really do want to “play music together” or “talk about books,” or whatever the heck it is they tell me.

And for the record: no. I did not give the stinky guy my number because I irrationally and unfairly blame him for my black eye.

“That’s not a black eye,” Leao informed me.

“There’s black above my eye. It’s bruised.” I argued.

“It has to be perceptible to be a black eye, Cisne.”

“Whatever, I can see it.”

“If it actually swells up and looks impressive, take a picture.”

Which, of course I will do.

But I still maintain it’s a black eye. Just a tiny bit of  a black eye, is all. But a tiny bit of something is still something, right?