I will never forget when a smell so putrid it almost paralyzed me emerged from beneath a pair of arms. (This is deducted evidence given its distinct aromatic flavor.) But who could be so unwittingly soiled as to allow such a scent to disseminate?
Clearly, the gudgeon in question had no sense of social courtesy. Hadn’t his (or was it her?) mother preached the merits of hyg–and just then, while I was about to assign poor judgement to any — nay, all credulous passersby (and their parents) in my proximity, I realized the smell was coming from (drumroll, plz) me.
I’d been wearing the same red cotton turtleneck for exactly 29 days. 29. That is almost one whole month. Of course, my not taking the shirt off meant that it had yet to meet the laundry machine I suspect could not wait to acquaint itself with turtle.
But given the diverse dexterity it demonstrated to wear so spectacularly under a blouse — any color, any print; a dress — any cut, any length; a sweater — crew and/or v; at least three bustiers I’d have otherwise rendered futile and with all the pants I’ve heretofore known — I just couldn’t.
This got me thinking about when turtlenecks don’t work, which led to a social study in the form of seven outfits, composed using four of my most valued versions of the neck conquerer paired with as much disparity as my closet could project in the form of feathers and summer dresses and polka dots and non prescription eyeglasses, which leaves us here now, reviewing accumulated data on winter’s most decisive beneficiary to once and for all, together forever, answer the pressing question that has plagued the female mind since January 5th, 1946: has Diane Keaton had it right all along?
I’m just kidding, that’s an obvious yes, it’s always been an obvious yes — but the turtleneck, really, sliced bread.