The great armpit mystery

We are trying a deodorant experiment.

I read this article about crusty yellow T-shirt armpits, and how they are actually caused by antiperspirant mixing with laundry detergent.  And that the antiperspirant might also cause Alzheimers and disrupt your hormones and a host of other creepy-sounding things.

Really, I was just looking for a way to salvage Nick's undershirts, but you know how Google takes you down a rabbit hole and then next thing you know you are late, late for a very important date?

But I digress. See, I always thought the armpit crud was just something men did. Like, their testosterone mixes with their deodorant and then gets swirled around by their hair and mashed into their shirts and it's just one of the gross things you have to live with if you want to live with a man, kind of like how they like to fart under the blankets and then floof them in glee in your direction.

Or maybe your husband or boyfriend doesn't do that. I don't know any women who do, and so I've always assumed that would be one of myriad positives of being in a lesbian relationship.

Anyway.

It turns out that it's kind of hard to find just deodorant by itself. It seems to typically be mixed with antiperspirant. And their also seems to be this movement towards clinical strength armpit stopper-uppers, which seems kind of scary to me.  I don't know.

I also did a little research on the natural kind. One friend told me that Tom's of Maine doesn't work, and another friend said the crystal sucks. Those were the only two natural-ish options at our CVS last night, so we wound up getting Speed Stick, I think it was, because it smelled OK. I'm considering ordering a couple of natural ones, though, and seeing how they go.

So, the urgency for the switch to deodorant was prompted by the following:

I took the bold step of ordering Nick new undershirts! They arrived all sparkly white and fresh and new, as you can see above.

Nick is fully on board with the experiment. He also read that we should practically be boiling his undershirts, which may or may not happen. I'm more concerned about the chemicals; he's more concerned about the crud. Our hot water is already very hot.

Also, I include this picture because people sometimes tell me that before meeting Nick, they thought I was exaggerating about how enormous he is. I know I'm not very big, but I'm pretty normal. His people are giants. I'm telling you.

I mean, yes, I exaggerate when I describe a wall of seersucker walking down the street. But...not by much. I mean, look at this jacket.

Because of this, folding his shirts is tantamount to folding sheets. I hold them by one end and fling them out and they make that same THWACK sound.

And every once in a while when I'm folding laundry, I mistake a pair of Nick's boxers for a pillow case.

I always think it's a lot funnier than he does.