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.

Time to Christen the Ship/Insecurities on the subway

Well, I guess it's time for the maiden post of this new blog, so I'm thinking the best way to approach this is through a mission statement of sorts (albeit much less formal). I've created this blog in order to share my experiences in Brooklyn, my quest for a niche in life, and the numerous insecurities that plague me throughout the day. I'm serious: I've got about a thousand neurotic insecurities that could all qualify for a psychological disorder of their own, each with an official definition in the DSM-IV (the catalog of craziness that psychiatrists use to appear adequately educated). I'm not sure if I'm the only person who bumbles through life like a confused child, but I know that I am constantly and consistently informed by my insecurities, and it is, indeed, a confusing world out there. Things are never as simple as we perceive them. Even if we over-analyze things, we don't ever really form a solid understanding of our lives because the complexities that elude us are innumerable. This is why I'm so terribly distraught all the time. I'll never really get it, so I'm always fighting blind, and that just doesn't seem safe. Okay, enough of this, It's time to get started. Here's the first piece:

One of the most consistently confusing aspects of my life is subway etiquette. Particularly, when it is appropriate to give up my seat on the subway? When I first moved to New York, I was under the impression that--being a young and able bodied man--I should stand as long as there was a woman without a seat. That was over as quickly as it was conceived. Not only is such a Victorian notion of gentlemanliness impractical, it's counter intuitive to my feminist sensibilities. So, as the weeks turned into months, I started sitting freely, but even then, if I saw a woman in heels or a grumpy middle-aged person, I'd stand readily. That also dissipated (partly because I lost sympathy for people who make a conscious decision to wear impractical shoes, and partly because every time I gave up my seat, it would immediately be filled by the closest teenager). My workdays grew longer, and the hardening process of New-York-life trained me to find a seat and protect it at all costs. But, even so, there are a few exceptions where it's universally appropriate to give up a seat. The problem is recognizing these situations.

It seems reasonable to assume that pregnant women should always get a seat, but here's the problem: how do you know if someone's pregnant? My girlfriend once ran into an awkward situation where a guy got up under the assumption that she was pregnant; she was not, but she took the seat and thanked him just to avoid the embarrassing alternative. Ever since then, I've second guessed myself regarding pregnant women. Now I have to decide which is worse: do I offer a potentially un-pregnant woman a seat at the risk of our mutual embarrassment? Or do I neglect to offer my seat in fear of a social transgression? I don't know. Yesterday, I found myself on the F-train, sitting before a bulging, gravid stomach, silently debating with myself, embarrassed that I hadn't already offered her my seat (and equally embarrassed that I might appear to be leering at a pregnant stomach). What do you do in a situation like that? What's the appropriate measure?

It also seems reasonable to give up your seat to the elderly, right? Is seems natural to have respect for the old and decrepit because we will all someday be old and decrepit ourselves. The problem is than I have no idea how old someone needs to be before they qualify for priority seating. As I stated earlier, I used to give up my seat for middle-aged people, but it turns out that there are a hell of a lot of middle-aged people in New York, and 99% of them are healthier than I am. I've grown defiant toward the overweight housewives who gossip in groups on the train, glaring in judgment at any and all who are seated more comfortably than they are. So, over time, I've narrowed my group to senior citizens, but then we run into the age old question: how many wrinkles does someone have to have before they qualify for senior citizenship? How frail should they appear before they are entitled to a seat? It's so difficult to judge that I am frequently distracted (for the entirety of my ride) by the prospect of a very wrinkly 40-something.

There are others who should get a seat: the obviously handicapped, women with strollers, and anybody who seems too exhausted to stand. But, even so, I find that I am less polite than I intend because I am haunted by the prospect of misinterpreting the situation. Even worse, I'm usually bitter and tired, myself. I tell myself that they don't have my job, they're not standing all day, they don't know what I've dealt with. This makes it a little easier to bunker down in my seat, put on a blank expression, and bury my face in a book. Is it wrong of me to feel this way? I don't know. It seems like everyone else is following suit, and we're not exactly rude, we're just minding our own business.