I toddled on into one of our local cafes for lunch with an old pal. Mindful of well–rounded consumption and joy I asked for and received a seat in smoking. Soon enough our ashtray was abducted with the excuse that a large party had arrived, they must be seated near us; ergo, no more room for smoking.
I want to pause here to describe an affliction of all attached men. You get in an elevator and whiff that delightful bit of Fendi and think: “Ah, damn attractive woman.” You pass a covey of youngish ladies, all of whom emit those wonderful aromas that International Flavors and Fragrances so decently provide, and really begin to appreciate the perfume industry. You are then sure, deep down, that that is the girl you’d have if you were single. You and she are made for one another, but too bad for her – you’re attached. You conveniently forget that those women never, ever spoke to you during your single days.
It is no small coincidence that the scent industry is a multi–billion dollar business and men aren’t complaining. Well, back to lunch.
The large party that preempted my smoke was seated just as my food arrived, so no big deal. However, our meal was ruined as we could barely eat for the cloud of smell that surrounded this party. This gang was a pack of gum chewing women who had been furiously caking on the powder and spraying on the drug-store-bottled stench. These Tammis and Joanies were very different from the delicately scented Ann Taylor crowd whose presence evokes romantic nostalgia.
You’ve seen these pitiful gangs full of fifty-year-old peroxide-drenched, rouge-caked, pink terry cloth tank-topped, high-heeled, tight-skirted, odd-color-stocking-wearing women. They have young disciples who date Camaros with attached men. Their usual habitat is the gum rack near the Revco-brand face powders while decent children implore: “Mommy, Mommy, make it go away.”
These people smell terrible. They wear too many conflicting odors attached to too much make up and cheap spray. I can’t believe that inhaling second hand rouge powder can be healthy for anyone, especially diners. Yet somehow my smoking in the small spaces allotted to me by the cause Nazis is deemed infinitely more offensive. I believe that every office and restaurant needs specified non–exaggerated cosmetic zones, but let pool halls and line dance halls be exempted.
I do allow that young girls first experimenting with artificial beautifications have a God-given right to plaster on too much just as every teenager has a right to attempt coolness through smoking or that first drink. We can forgive that first-time hostess experimenting with Minute Rice (hey, it looks good on paper) and every boy’s idea that a pint of Old Spice is just the trick. But, in the grown up world of petty rights and causes, something must give.
No one, not even the worst smoker, likes smoke in his face while eating. You can’t convince me that subjecting anyone to an unwanted cloud of five penny eau–de–raw sewage is any less heinous.