Pansy

"Pansy" is a friend of mine. Not a great friend, but a good enough friend that it wouldn't be out of the question for me to call her up to invite her to the movies. But the fact is, I would never invite Pansy to sit next to me for the duration of a movie, because, plainly put, Pansy smells.

It’s bad. Her tang is a stifling bouquet of old cigarettes and warm gym shoes with a hint of gas stop latrine. And while we’re on the subject of Pansy, I should also mention that her nails are black with dirt, her clothes are often wrinkled and soiled with food stains, and her hair looks as though it is wet—when it is dry.

Naturally, all of this would be fine if she were an artist, a poet or a hippy. But she is not. Pansy is a career woman and a go-getter. She comes from a moneyed family and contrary to outward appearances, she subscribes to all of Society’s conventions. She is really into girly stuff—hair and make-up and clothes and boys. I’ve never seen someone with so many clothes before! Every time I see her, it seems as though she is wearing something new and expensive. She is so put together, right down to coordinating makeup, jewelry, handbags (and jelly stains!).

Pansy is “cute as a button,” and “a smart girl,” and “she helps out at church.” All of those qualities that a grandmother would look for in her grandson’s future wife. But I have a hard time with her hygiene. It is tough to have a conversation with her when I’m trying not to gag on the strong odor wafting from her person. It is difficult to want to shake her hand or give her a hug when I am wondering what microbes are taking an afternoon dip in the brown sludge beneath her nail bed. It is difficult to look her in the eye, when I’m blinded by her oily patina.

Of course, I am exaggerating for comedic effect. Really, I like Pansy for all of her dirtied hosiery and smudged eyeliner. She is funny and sweet and a good person. I just wish she and her clothes would take a bath. I wish there was some way to let her in on the way people perceive her. I am not usually one to give into The People’s opinions, but in this case and for someone like Pansy, I believe her outward appearance, the way she maintains herself, is a hindrance to her being taken seriously.

I’ve heard about services—kind, compassionate and sincere services—that will email or call the co-worker with halitosis or the uncle with B.O. and convey the news with warm finesse. But I still don’t have the heart. I am not a good enough friend to deliver that blow. And in reality, there is no way to break it to her gently.

I feel like her mother needs to tell her. And I wish she would. Stat!