Humans are very good at recognizing the emotion of disgust in a person’s facial expressions.
The other night I saw it in four faces: my wife’s, my daughter’s, my son’s, and my own.
There was a nasty smell in the house. Foul. Disgusting. Gross. Rank. It was bad.
I suffered the stench for two hours. It seemed like it was so close, yet for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where the putrid smell was coming from.
Finally, it dawned on me. The fetid, rancid, putrid smell was right under my nose. The revolting odour was emanating from my own beard.
Imagine the shame I felt and still feel today. Even Brené cannot help me.
It could have been the corn on the cob or the garlic chicken or the Coors Light or the Staphylococcus hominis. It could have been a combination of them all. But whatever it was, I’m telling you the smelly-cheese beard exists. And if you succumb to it, like Mr. Twit and I have, your wife and kids will never let you live it down.