Stinky subway girl

I've felt self-conscious all day. Here's why.

I got on the F train at 2nd Avenue this morning, like I always do, and headed uptown to work. Somewhere around 23rd Street, a stench filled the car. The kind of stench that would occur if, say, someone soiled wet pants that had mildewed.

I looked around the car, trying to see where the smell was emanating from. I saw no likely source. Then I noticed a sea of darting heads around me, trying to 1) find who was responsible for the odor and 2) move as far away from that person as possible. No one seemed to be solving the mystery.

Then, at 34th Street, an elderly gentlemen sat down two seats away from me, an empty seat between us. I saw him start to sniff the air, and then he looked at ME with the most disgusted look of disgust EVER, got up, and moved away from me! Me! With the still-wet hair, fresh from the shower! Me! With the Degree antiperspirant, Ralph perfume and clean underwear! Me! I wanted to beg him to come back and smell me at close range, just so he didn't spend his entire day thinking, and possibly talking, about the little stench girl on the F train this morning. Instead, I got off at Bryant Park and went about my day.

I know I was not responsible for polluting the subway car with funk this morning. I know this. That said, I can't tell you how many times I've caught a whiff of something today and hightailed it into the private bathroom to smell my entire body, and every article of clothing on it, just to make sure. I even took off my shoes to investigate, and while they do kind of smell, it's certainly not enough to fill a subway car.