I don't care if you have saved 50 thousand Romanian orphans from a life of poverty and prostitution.
I don't care if you are Jesus, come back to Earth to save us all. Or The Dali Llama.
I don't care if you are the nicest, most considerate, best, best, best person in the whole wide world.
If you are a person who wears perfume for any sort of engagement that takes place in a small auditorium,
You are an asshole.
I went to G's ballet recital, and I was strategically placed in such a way, that I was surrounded by women wearing too much perfume.
I am allergic to most synthetic perfumes. Not to the point of anaphylaxis, but my eyes start to burn, my skin starts to itch and my nose plugs up.
I watched the first part of the performance with a piece of my collar up around my nose.
G's friend Iz, cruel child, wouldn't let me hold the stuffed animal she brought, up to my face as a makeshift air filter.
Happily, I received a paper towel along with the bouquet of flowers that I got for G during intermission.
I held that up to my face for the rest of the performance.
Next time I'll take an allergy pill before I go anywhere like that.
Or better yet,
I have this little pipe dream I entertained myself with during the worst of it.
Keeping a gas mask in my purse for such moments and wearing it when needed, in the most nonchalant manner possible.
It will most likely never happen, but it gave some humor to a very uncomfortable situation.
The little girl who made G cry at ballet camp last year, screwed up on stage. I grinned hugely behind my wad of paper towels.
See, it wasn't all bad.