I've been subjected to a lot of bad smells in my life.
I worked in a microbiology lab for a while, purposefully growing smelly things. I swabbed pus and fecal specimens onto petri dishes. That was stinky.
I've spent time downwind of rotting corn husks in the Sweet Corn Capitol of the World. Disgusting.
I cloth diapered my kids. I poured sack-fulls of dirty diapers that had been festering for days into the washing machine. They did not smell like roses.
And still, nothing could have prepared me for the stench I came upon in my laundry room last night. It made me woozy. I had to shut the door and walk away, for fear of adding vomit to the smell.
The culprit? ONE single piece of clothing.
(This is where you praise Jesus that scratch-and-sniff computer screen technology is sorely lacking in development. Otherwise you'd be this shade of green right now.)
A hockey jersey, to be exact.
A hockey jersey that hasn't been washed for an entire hockey season. A jersey that has been drenched in man sweat time and time again, only to be wadded up, damp and stinky, for a week-long incubation in a dark hockey bag.
I think a small woodland creature could have crawled into Mike's hockey bag and died in there and it wouldn't smell as bad as this jersey. I think Mike could have taken a dump on the laundry room floor and let it sit there for a couple of days and it wouldn't damage my olfactory nerves they way this jersey did.
It's still sitting up there, behind closed laundry room doors. I'm about to wash it, but not before I locate a gas mask and some tongs. If I don't make it out alive, it's been nice knowing you.