Today I smell like a bar of Zest soap from the 1980s. Thanks to chemo, I’m too weak and dizzy to take my usual shower, so I mopped myself up with those bathing cloths I brought home from the hospital over a year ago. They smell like old school soap.
It’s not my first choice in fragrance, but it could be worse, right? As it stands if I paired this scent with a hint of Listerine, I might convince myself I’m 8 years old again, sitting on my Grampa’s lap.
If I remember right, he sat in a fake leather recliner that made so much noise when you sat in it. The end of each arm was repaired with duct tape. And the shade of the floor lamp beside the chair still had the plastic cover on it. There was a fake spider nestled between the shade and the cellophane. I don’t know how it got there; I never asked.
And an ink pen was wedged in near some decorative flourishes below the bulb and switch. (When I was little, I thought the lamp had a built-in pen holder.) Sometimes I’d see Grampa use the pen to write. Usually he’d stick it in his ear to scratch an itch.
Anyway, I parked my rollator at the sink so I could sit to wash my face and brush my teeth. That’s how tired I am today.