Saturday, August 7, 2010

die, stink, die!

Okay, now that I have passed my WFTDA assessments (go me!), it's time to turn my focus to something more serious:

I must, I must, I must get rid of my skates and pad stink.

Up until now I haven't been too worried about the stale sweat funk emanating from my knee and elbow pads.  Generally, since I am still such an easy target on the track, I think that if someone wants to hit me, I want it to at least be unpleasant olfactory-wise.  It is my only line of defense. 

Yesterday, I had an all too rare opportunity to strap on my skates and toodle around the driveway with my daughter, showing her a few things and letting her get some time in on her skates.  We were all relaxed, visiting with some family, just hanging out.  Happy happy joy joy.

Until I brought out my knee pads.  There is nothing casual about the way my knee pads smell. 

After just wearing the pads, not even sweating, the scent of dirty derby girl lingered on my flesh until my next shower.  It was like wearing a scarlet letter, a big 'A' for Ass-scented.  Nobody wanted to associate with me.

Before you think me too terrible, know that I have actually washed my pads.  I air them out faithfully after every practice (well, my husband does, because he just can't stand them) and I regularly set them out in the sun to let nature disinfect them.  I'm not a total slacker.

Still, at this point I feel like taking a shower just looking at my skate equipment.  I'm wondering if I should get another set of knee pads and wrists guards.  Then I will have my regular set for derby practice and another for dress up.  My Sunday best knee pads.  Then, when I take my daughter out for a skate around the block the neighbors won't say mean things and call the environmental protection agency over the next time I go out for groceries.

Actually, not too bad of an idea to have a 'good set' of pads for special and family occasions.  I could glue on rhinestones and co-ordinate them with my outfits.  Of course, the next step is the dressier pair of skates, like those blue velvets artistic skates, and wrist pads with faux fur covers.  A set of plumes for the helmet, golden laces, and a fuschia mouthguard trimmed with diamonds.  I'm afraid that it would be an upward spiral of safety fashions and I'd become a high maintence rollergirl that can't leave the house without a lace trimmed chin strap and a streak of glitter across her cheek.

All that maintence probably works up a sweat, too, and I'd still smell like a gym locker.

Before I go out and drop even more money at rollergirl, I am going to try some sort of spray-the-stink away concotion.  Tea tree oil and Febreeze.  If that doesn't work, then maybe I can rustle up some Catholic priests for an exorcism.   

After that, well, hand me my credit card and a Bedazzler.  My girl child already has enough issues, having once explained to her little brother that "Mommy has to go away to practice because sometimes she just needs to hit some bitches," without her mother also setting off car alarms with her invasive safety pad stench.

Whatever is going to happen, it must happen soon.  The skate bag is starting to take on a life of its own and I fear it may one day go feral.  Then the neighbors will really have something to worry about.  But, then, I probably won't have to worry about hits on the track either. 

There is a silver lining to every putrid cloud.

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