Sometimes something will make me rethink my distaste for children. I’ll be watching the episode of “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” where Jacqueline gives birth to baby Nicholas, and I’ll think, “Wow, I’ll bet that one is a lot less ugly than her daughter, Ashley, was.” (Because seriously, all through the episode where Ashley was doing a photoshoot and kept complaining that the photographer wasn’t getting any good shots, I kept waiting for Jacqueline to tell her the problem is actually her face.) But Nicholas, even hours after his birth, was a lot less alien-esque than almost every baby I’ve seen recently, and it made me question whether I was getting soft on children.
And then, a couple of days ago, I was on the downtown 4 on my way to work when someone let one rip. I don’t care how much air they have swirling around the train cars; an enclosed space is an enclosed space, and the space around me filled up with nasty-smelling air that lingered for more than a minute. This happens from time to time, and I desperately want to go around sniffing butts until I figure out who dropped the bomb, but I never have the guts. I want to scream, “I can smell your shame!”, but I’m always unwilling to draw attention to myself.
