"Who didn't put their dirty clothes in the laundry room?" is a typical accusation as I rummage through forgotten gym bags thrown on bedroom floors. I am certain I will find a sweaty shirt from football camp smoldering in a zipped knapsack.
My nose has expert instincts. Twenty-one years with a house full of boys has been a prelude to this perfection.
Although hygiene did improve with every year they grew, the smells would change. I would categorize them as worse with changing body mass which resulted in increased ability to sweat in buckets.
Yesterday Grant hopped in my car for a ride to lacrosse. My nose immediately went into full alert. There was clearly an issue.
"Is your shirt clean? The socks! Yes, it has to be the socks. Have you changed them today? Maybe you should spray on some Fa-breeze so we're not late."