Forgetting and Surprising

The interesting thing about not smelling is that I sometimes forget about it. Meaning sometimes I forget that can’t smell. That nothing has a scent anymore. Unfortunately, this means I get the rude awakening multiple times a day, and it’s a little disheartening each time. In spite of what I’ve learned, what I have gained, it still gets to me sometimes.

I know that’s the nature of things like this. Loss, if you will. You start getting used to it, going through the motions, and everything seems normal. But then you remember that it’s not normal. Not really. Sure, it’s the “new normal”, but it’s not like it was. Not how you remember.

Today, for example. I’m at a regatta [rowing race] with my team, and the only bathroom facilities available to us are port-a-potties. So, when so inclined, I went in and did my business.

Only it was the freshest smelling port-a-potty I had ever been in. It was remarkable, really, how not uncomfortable it was. Aside from the fact that it was a warm plastic box specifically designed for bathroom facilities without the work of plumbing, it wasn’t anything disgusting or scary or weird. And then I remembered that this was not how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t some brand new, fresh off of the line port-a-potty that had never been used. This was a well-used much needed port-a-potty at a busy athletic event in the middle of the afternoon in the sunshine. It should have reeked. I should have been holding my breath. I should be screaming inside to get out of here before the germs got to me.

But I wasn’t. Instead there was nothing.

Now, don’t write to my parents, I’m not going into a depression because of a refreshing change of relationship between me and that poor misunderstood port-a-potty. That’s not the point of this. The point was I forgot.

I still forget.

The bus I’m riding on ought to smell like sweaty girls and bus fuel. It doesn’t.

I rode on an airplane and went through a busy airport. It should have smelled faintly of jet fuel, which gives me a headache every time, and it should have smelled like cheap yet expensive airport food. It didn’t. I never got a headache [not complaining about that one], and I was not at all tempted by the yummy looking pizzas that usually would have sent my stomach growling like crazy.

I’m drinking hot chocolate right now. It should taste like hot chocolate. It doesn’t.

But every time I drink it, I expect it to. I suspect I always will.

Ice cream tastes like sweet dairy. Nothing much to it. So I get ice cream with something in it. Variety. The spice of life, right? It’s certainly the spice of mine these days.

Sometimes I forget that chicken doesn’t taste like chicken anymore. Sometimes I forget that a cheese biscuit will taste like the chicken does, except the texture tells me it’s bread and warm and buttery. Sometimes I forget that shampoo and soap doesn’t smell anymore. Sometimes I can’t remember if I put on sunscreen or not because I can’t smell it on my skin.

And briefly, I forget why that is.

Then I remember.

And it’s sad. But then it’s okay. Because that tree near our docking site that I thought was all dormant from winter? It’s not. I looked closer. There’s little tiny buds on it that look like they’ll flower into something. And I could tell what certain rowing teams did well and not so well in their form and stroke on my very first day of watching races because I was paying attention. I had learned how to study the body, and right there I applied it. Because a decently cute college aged rower from a certain school that I will not name looked at me a little too long and with a little too much of a smile when I was wearing your basic jeans, t-shirt, jacket, tennis shoes, and sunglasses. I even added a very sunburnt nose to the ensemble. Didn’t matter that I am way too old for him or that he was so tiny I could have broken his thigh by sitting on him. He looked. And he smiled. And it was nice.

And everybody said the pastrami sandwiches at lunch were awful. I did not know that. And I ate one. Couldn’t complain about it, so that’s good.

And according to my rowers, I’m still ridiculously old, even if I look 23. So there’s that.

High: Differentiating between the peppery taste and the spicy taste on the other chicken at dinner. I didn’t know what the difference was, but there was a difference.

Low: The shampoo at this hotel happens to be one of my all-time favorite Bath and Body Works fragrance. I’m still taking the complimentary bottles. Just in case it comes back, I want this stuff on hand.

High: I’m saying the port-a-potty again. That was awesome. Makes me wonder if diaper changes are as bad if you can’t smell it…

So maybe this isn’t a surprise I enjoy getting every time I forget. But I can breathe. I can see the blue skies. I can hear the birds singing. I can feel the warmth of the sun. And music still calms my heart and settles my mind. 

So it’s really not that bad, is it? 

Unless you’re making bacon to just test me. Then I might hurt you. 

But not really. 

Sort of.