I’ve never smelled a fart. Ever. Wouldn’t know one trapped in an elevator with a frat boy on a high-protein diet. No idea what the big deal is.

For the record, it’s not like I’m cruising down the freeway with some kind of fart blindspot. I’ve never smelled anything at all. Don’t know what a smell is, can’t hardly imagine what one might be like. This strikes many people as odd, but what they don’t realize is that it can be awfully problematic, as well.

When you can smell, you take all sorts of things for granted. Things like knowing that wearing sneakers all summer without socks is a bad idea. I didn’t pick up on that little gem until two nauseated passersby in a university locker room told me it smelled like my leg was rotting off--and they weren’t particularly nice about it.

Not as nice as Dana, anyways, my friend of a friend whom I picked up for a date with a bag of rotting produce under the driver’s seat. We found it after riding to the tea house with the windows down. She was still DTF, but man did I have to lay on the charm after that one. And that’s just the beginning.

It took me weeks to realize the persistent rain puddle in the backyard was in fact a bog of human feces pooled up from a root-clogged main line. I believed my son--and didn’t wash his sheets--when he told me he “spilled water” on himself during his sleep. And while we’re on the subject of domestic mishaps, how the fuck was I supposed to know the cat was dead?

To be fair, it hasn’t been all bad. You learn as you go and put systems in place based on the criticisms you receive: lift your butt off the fabric seats when you rip ‘em in the car, clean the catbox daily (RIP), don’t leave mason jars filled with piss laying around the house. Little tidbits like that.

Sometimes, people feel sorry for me. They pity me for never having known the smell of fall or the rain, the scent of freshly cut grass or the distinct aroma of newborns (who apparently smell so good you want to “eat them”). And there are certain risks involved. I don’t know the smell of smoke. Wouldn’t know there’s a gas leak until I strike the match, which I suppose is just as well... Because I haven’t even told you the worst part.

It’s the shame. The little cuts at your self-esteem when you worry other people think you’re just some fucking weirdo living in squalor. Or worse, a bad parent. One of my son’s friends fought tooth and nail when her father tried to bring her over to our place to play. The week before she had been at the house and it reeked so badly of cat urine and dirty socks she’s never wanted to come back. I caught whiff of that through the neighborhood grapevine. It stunk.

When something like that happens, it’s hard not to get defensive. I want to explain my circumstances. Sometimes I do, and given the opportunity usually get the same question in reply.

“Can you taste?“

To which, in my more sour of moods, I want to say “Well, I could taste your mom’s pussy last night.” But I don’t. Because, the truth is, I couldn’t.

But she never needs to know that.

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