smells like paranoia

A nursing major once told me that phantom smells are a symptom of brain tumors. This is very disheartening news, and moreover, it adds numerous questions to my already insecurity-plagued mind. New York is a city founded upon layers and layers of fossilized odor; it is a wonderland for olfactophiles (people who are aroused by strong odors), a teeming island of different scents that assault one's nose on a daily basis. The subway platform is the worst. It's where the various emanations of daily life are baked in the stagnant heat of underground tunnels, proliferating in a thick, odorous atmosphere. Needless to say, this can be a little troubling.

For me, wafting odor is a daily concern. It freaks me out, triggers a paranoid episode, and sends me into an unhinged thought cycle of self-doubt. It's not that I don't prepare: I shower daily, slather on layers upon layers of deodorant, and always brush my teeth. But, even so, when riding the train or strolling to work, if I catch the slightest whiff of an unpleasant scent, I become determined to rule myself out as the offending source. This results in a number of awkward (and sometimes embarrassing) sniffing maneuvers which are designed to look like innocent gestures. My favorite is the Underarm Head Scratch, my first line of defense. First, I casually raise my arm to scratch my head. Then, when I'm convinced that no one is paying attention, I sniff my armpit. If nothing seems awry, then I am absolved, and I can rest easy. I usually attribute the smell to a dried pool of bum-urine or the fish-vomit that litters Korean Way on weekend mornings (an unavoidable byproduct of the innumerable karaoke bars that operate adjacent Korean restaurants on that short strip of 32nd st).

If I am on the subway, things become a little more complicated. First, there are more people around, so it becomes a much more dangerous mission. It's easier to blow my cover, and there are many more suspects to be ruled out. This is where embarrassment becomes a common occurrence. I can't count how many time's I've been caught mid head-scratch with my nose buried in my armpit. Even worse, it's usually an elderly woman who makes me, shaking her head disappointedly as if my self-doubt were a confirmation of my guilt. There's also the possibility that my jeans have been worn one too many days in a row, and this is a much more complicated problem to address. It's easy to sniff your armpit without appearing freakish, but it's an entirely different thing to smell your pants. This requires finnesse, which I am at a decided lack of. My only option is to casually lean over as if I am rummaging through my backpack while I simultaneously sniff my leg. This doesn't usually help. My jeans usually smell like my armoire, which has (for as long as I can remember) the distinct aroma of wet wood. Moreover, despite my attempts at discovering the source, I am usually left even less certain than before. This is because of the likely possibility that I wouldn't notice my own odor. This renders my previous efforts null and void, leading to numerous possibilities: either A) I am going completely insane, B) I have a brain tumor, leading to crazy neuroses, or C) no matter where you are in New York, you can always smell somebody's body odor.