Things That Happen When You Don't Shower

Living in New York City, there are certain inevitables that occur. Things that happen here that don’t really happen anywhere else.  Things are bound to happen, like:

• Getting stuck on a subway car with no air conditioning. In August.  Nothing like the smell of ball sweat and freshly baked homeless guy to liven up your evening commute.
• Finding a giant, thug water bug in your apartment at least once a summer. This happens even if you’re as neat and clean as Felix Unger.  Thug Bugs will suddenly show up, just to remind you that they’re there and they can take over whenever they wish and you’re living on borrowed time.
• Turning tricks to pay the summer Con Ed bill. (Con Ed is responsible for more desperate people turning to prostitution for money that Meth, Crack and Heroin combined.)
• Wanting to stab tourists. Stab them to death. Over and over and over again.

DIE!

And, in life, you’re bound to run into people at a bad time, just when you don’t want to see them.  Like running into an ex-boyfriend while you’re doing laundry and wearing your extra special “laundry pants”. Seeing your landlord when you’re a week late on the rent.  But there is particular kind of NYC inevitable event to which I refer.

And that involves New York City Firefighters (FDNY).

There's a fire...in my pants.

Formal wear.

So there you are, home, bored, in pajamas you haven’t changed out of in 36 hours.  Maybe you’re sick or you have PMS or a boyfriend just dumped you.  Or maybe it’s the weekend and you just said, “fuck hygiene”.  Regardless, you’re pretty much not suited for human interaction, but even Dirt People get hungry.  You put on your best two dollar slippers, the least holey sweat pants you can find, Jackie-O sunglasses to hide your shame, spray some Febreeze on yourself and shuffle off to the supermarket to get groceries.  As you approach the check out line with a squirrely demeanor, wanting to get back to your fortress of darkness and watch the hell out of your DVR, your basket is filled with a gallon of ice cream, chips, pizza rolls, dog food, tampons and Imodium.

Aphrodisiac?

Then it happens.  You didn’t see them when you came in.  How could you have missed the truck? You look for place to hide, but there’s no place to go.  So you stand there, head down, trying to shrink, hoping that the Febreeze is working. Your body tenses and your adrenaline pumps as you enter into a mode of fight or flight.  (And believe me, flight is your best option.) Inwardly, you scream in anguish at the unfairness of the Universe.

He's guaranteed by law to get laid.

In NYC, firefighters work in shifts that require them to sleep at the firehouse, therefore they must eat at the firehouse.  FDNY’s cooking skills are legendary.  It isn’t cost efficient for a large group of hungry men to order in everyday, so they cook, and cook well and this requires them to shop for groceries.  And this is your lucky night!  As members of the local firehouse (all twenty of them) come up behind you on line with a cartful of groceries, you’re torn between just dropping everything and running away in shame and staying there to take in the eye candy.  Firemen are hot in general. They save people, they are young and in shape.  They do things like put oxygen mask on kittens. Things that make women swoon, drool and fan themselves while throwing their panties at the fire truck as if it were a Tom Jones concert.

But FDNY is a special kind of hot.  They have their own annual beefcake calendar.  A lot of them look like this:

And you wonder why I call 911 twice a day?

And you, well, you look like this:

Pictured: Me on a Saturday

As you slink away, Fat Girl groceries in hand, you swear to yourself that you will never ever leave the house looking this bad again.  You curse yourself for not having fixed yourself up and you imagine what could have been, if only you had brushed your teeth for real and not simply popped some Dentyne Pure.  If only you'd looked better (and smelled better), then one of the FDNY would have surely gazed upon you, lovingly and thought “That girl! That’s the girl I’ve been looking for my whole life!”  He would have paid for your groceries, asked for your number, swept you off your feet to live happily ever after with your hunky new husband and ass kicking health insurance. 

Baby, tell me again about your dental plan...

But alas, fate is a cruel bitch, and you are a lazy one, so you will be doomed to have repeat encounters like this one for the rest of your life (or until you start showering on weekends.)

Not likely.