Miss Kim began the school day in her 5th/6th blend with a stern lecture. According to our teacher's nose, there were a handful of children in the elementary classroom that were beginning to smell. The lecture turned into a preamble for sex ed later that year, but Miss Kim delicately explained how our bodies were changing and because of these "fun and exciting changes," we smelled. We were instructed to wear deodorant.
As an ascetic, forward-thinking fifth grader eager to grow up, the invitation into adulthood via deodorant was borderline emancipating. Furthering evidence of age impatience was my choice in reading material - while most were reading Boxcar Children and Goosebumps, I was studying the Oregon DMV pamphlet for my learners permit a full six years early. Adulthood could not come soon enough. I needed to grow up. I needed to land a career job. I needed the American Dream. And deodorant was going to take me there.
I can only imagine what my poor parents were saying behind my back after I hurried home that afternoon and excitedly informed them that Miss Kim demanded I wear deodorant. To be labeled as parents of the smelly kid is less than desirable. Perhaps in fear of the family reputation or worry that the stinky issue might embarrassingly come up at parent/teacher conferences, they gave little resistance to deodorizing and rushed me to the nearest supermarket pharmacy aisle.
Options were limitless. So many deodorants used flowery marketing like Xtreme Sport or Arctic Chill, but I wasn't fooled. My first deodorant was a Speed Stick. The name said it all. I needed a deodorant that could keep up.
To say I was excited about wearing the stuff is a gross understatement. Ignoring my mother's request to unload the groceries, I dashed down the hall to the bathroom, ripped my shirt off and began generously applying my Speed Stick.
The rush. The tingle. The sensation.
Notifying my parents that I was no longer their little boy was the hardest part. I explained to the audience of two, likely rolling their eyes, that I had applied the forbidden pharmaceutical fruit of adulthood to my underarm and it smelled delicious.
Figuring that I could master the Speed Stick, respect it's power, and wield it responsibly was my parents' mistake. Like Smeagol to the Ring, my fondness for the newest weapon in my adulthood arsenal quickly grew into an obsession.
Lathering my pits post shower soon seemed insufficient. Frequency of use was increased to include the typical morning application and an additional bonus round right before bedtime.
In following the American mantra of more is better, the next move was to increase the dosage. Smothering skin with Speed Stick became a five minute OCD ritual. My pits were lathered with cakey layers.
The final act was to maximize potency by increasing surface area covered. Underarms were inadequate. My chest was carpet bombed with the stick. There was a method. An enormous X stretching across the entire chestal expanse was drawn followed up with a box outlining my frame.
My Speed Stick lasted a week.
The deodorant protocol lasted until the morning mom caught me applying the X across my chest. She told me I was ridiculous, I was wasting the stick, and if I couldn't use it properly she would take my new found manhood away.
Ashamed of the eccentricity and frightened by her threat, I weened myself off.
Uncle Ben once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." His life lesson is applicable in no better situation than my deodorant coming of age tale. Respect the Speed Stick and it will love you back.
xoxo,
ShavedGolf
