I was awakened by a muffled, static-filled voice. My clock radio has never had good reception, but it's better than having even more beeps and bells ringing in my ears in the morning. I trod, as I routinely do, to the bathroom.

After my shower, I involuntarily grabbed the deodorant and began caking it under my left pit. I’ve always been a heavy sweater, so from puberty on I have usually applied a little more than is actually needed. As I switched hands to give the other side a swipe, I noticed that I had mistakenly grabbed my wife's deodorant. I looked at my brand still sitting on the shelf. I looked at my wife's in my hand and then back at the shelf. I had done it. I had applied my wife's deodorant, women's deodorant, pH balanced deodorant. Instead of smelling of sport musk, I'd be lilac fresh all day long. I stood there, trying to figure out 
what to do.

I had options. I could simply apply hers to the other side; I could put my deodorant on the other side; I could step back in the shower, scrub it off and apply anew. 

I stood pondering my options so long that a bang on the bathroom door told me just how late I was. Shit, shit, shit. I began to panic. I still couldn't decide. I stood in the middle of the bathroom just staring at her deodorant in my hand. I glanced back at my deodorant on the shelf and then back to hers in my hand. Another, more deliberate, violent bang on the door. Oh, the hell with it, I thought and evened up the other side with her stick. I told myself if anything out of the ordinary happens this day, I'd know why. 

I stood halfway inside my closet trying to decide what to wear. With my deodorant identity crisis now full blown, I was cautious about every move I made. Why had I just pulled out a silk shirt? It wasn't what I usually wore to work. Plain, breathable cotton is what is called for, certainly not silk. Was it that I now wanted something softer against my skin?

Down in the kitchen I poured myself a big mug of hot water for tea. I pulled a box of tea bags down from the cupboard. I examined the picture on it: a young woman in repose, gently sipping a dainty cup with a label on a string dangling from it. I cast it aside telling myself that I'd just pick up a hot cup of Joe on the way in to work. I then gathered bowl, spoon, milk and box of cereal and sat at the table. As I crunched down my breakfast, I read the box as I often do when the newspaper is late. There, on the back, for only $5.99 and five proof-of-purchase seals, I could get aerobics tapes that would flatten my belly, slim my waist, reduce my hips, lift my bottom and shrink my thighs. 

I pushed the box aside and turned on the television to one of those morning news shows. There, during the station breaks, I was told how a mother can comfort a sick child with liquid pain relief; that some cars come complete with flower vases; that women who work can come home and pour a complete meal out of a plastic bag from your grocer's freezer; and if I had decided to go strapless today, I had used the right deodorant because even though it was a solid, it goes on clear.

I shut off the television and seriously contemplated calling in sick. I wondered if I would be more or less aggressive on the commute. Would I be more or less tolerant of sexist slurs in the professional workplace? Would I listen far more carefully to what people say without thinking more of what I'm going to say when they are done speaking? Would I look directly at a woman's face when talking to her without once glancing downward? Would I take off one of my shoes in a meeting? Would I clean up the coffee area?  Enough, enough, enough! What was I doing? I have always considered myself an enlightened, forward-thinking, accepting, open-minded, intelligent individual. I have prided myself at being above the sewer lure of advertising. It doesn't affect me. I don't need Madison Avenue to tell me what to think. How could I have been so wrong?

Is it that I had been fooling myself for years, or is it that advertising seeps into our subconsciouses far more than we'd like to admit. Are we far more duped than we realize?

Perhaps we can't help it. Perhaps we like being told what is and what is not regardless of logic, sense, or reason. Perhaps what we fear most is that part of us we don’t want to admit is there. Does the liberal tolerate so much diversity because he or she is afraid of the conservative within, a suppressed trust, perhaps, in a father's words? Does the civil rights activist commit so strongly because deep down inside there is a suppressed racist placed there by an environment in which he or she was raised? Does the free-thinking, independent individualist who claims immunity to societal trends succumb to gimmicky advertisements as well?

Perhaps there's something inside all of us that wants to jump off mountains and drink a soda; play volleyball on the beach with the most beautiful people while downing a few beers; listen to the hippest music while cruising through the city with a car full of our best (and most beautiful) friends; slide, spray or roll-on 24 hour clear, confidence protection so that we may achieve success in even the most stressful situations.

My wife met me in the kitchen just as I was about to leave. She asked me why I had used her deodorant. How did she know? Did it show? And here I was, thinking I had just gotten over the whole thing. No, she told me. Tell-tale hair stuck to her stick. Relieved, I explained to her my mishap. She sighed and said she didn't know why we couldn't just always use the same one.

I shrugged my shoulders. A faint whiff of lilac drifted to my nose. I really didn't know why either.

Author's Biography

Dean P. Johnson has had essays appear in the Los Angeles Times, Christian Science Monitor, New York Times, Chicago Tribune and the Philadelphia Inquirer among several others. 

He teaches literature and writing at Camden Academy Charter High School and Camden County College, both in southern New Jersey. 

E-mail Dean.

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