"Aluminum has been linked to lymph node cancers and to Alzheimers!" he cries, presumably after secretly paging through my Self magazine while on the toilet.
At this point I usually grab my Lady Mitchum and take a deep sniff. "Wait, who are you?" I say, all confused, and then I pretend to walk into a wall. I am hi-larious.
But, truth be told, I do have sensitive underarms that get all rashy when faced with most products. And Jeff gets so sincere when he prosthelytizes about my pits that I figured it wouldn't hurt to try something new.
Which brings me to Tom's of Maine.
At this point I would like to share with you a heart-warming story of my coming-of-age. The scene: my 8th grade social studies class. I was sitting as per usual, taking notes on the Byzantine empire (or something else I have since entirely forgotten) when I noticed a foul, musky stench reminiscent of sweat and sour milk. I sniffed to my left and to my right, wondering which greasy preteen boy had neglected to shower that week, when it finally dawned on me that it was I who smelled. At the tender age of 13, I had suddenly stopped smelling like Play-Doh and pie and sugar and spice and had begun to reek of awkward hormones and sebum and mildewy back issues of Tiger Beat. Horrified and humiliated, I clamped my arms to my sides and kept them there until I got home that night, and I've been a deodorant devotee ever since.
I've smelled pretty decent for the past 15 years (with a few notable exceptions, most involving shots of Jameson, cigarettes, and forgetting to brush my teeth), so imagine my surprise when halfway through my workday yesterday I discovered that I smelled like ass. Well, mildly lavender-scented ass, like ass that had been stored in a drawer with a potpourri sachet and some mothballs for a few seasons.
Tom's! Why you gotta do me like that? And why can't your toothpaste taste as good as Crest, while we're on the subject? No one wants to lather up with fennel at the end of the day. Jesus. Are you mental?