Stankonia

Today at the gym, while struggling through sprints on the tred mill, an offending odor disrupted my heavy breathing. For a brief moment I was transported to a Hungarian sweat dungeon where middle-aged men with pot-bellies performed squats in their Speedos. But let's not relive those days. As the odor persisted, I divined to find the source. My neighbor to the left was a scraggly gentleman with an unkempt beard and amateur exercise attire (such as Keds for running shoes and wool socks). On my right was a petite women with a bouffant hair-do making a noble attempt with those little legs at a serious run. Let's be honest. This is Brattleboro, Vermont. A place where views on the boons of pheromones and the ills of showering most likely mirror Europe's. It could have been either one of these people. However, eager to address the unhappy circumstance, my sure-fire snap judgment placed the blame squarely on the man (most often the perpetrators of pungent aromas). I commenced my all-powerful glare and envisioned his shifty foot-work and consequent tumble into the wall behind. However, when the man left, the problem did not. Confused but unshaken, I reassured myself that I had merely misjudged and crinkled my nose at the little stink-bomb to my right. When my run was finished, I high-tailed it to the locker room, only to notice that the smell had followed me, while the woman had not.

I think there's a lesson here folks: Sometimes, the smell may be you.