I'm lucky to be here.
This afternoon a child in my after-lunch class took it upon herself to violate one of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's rules, the one that decrees no student shall slather herself with lotion in the confines of the classroom on Mrs. HM's time.
The miasma of fragrance was nearly overpowering. My eyes watered. My sinuses drained. Fluid gushed down the back of my throat, jostling my uvula like a boxer at a speed bag. I hacked. I sputtered. I blew my nose. I cleared my throat. I retched like an a great-great-grandpa harrumphing up a lung. If I was a maple tree, a winter's worth of syrup could have been salvaged from my excretions.
The culprit remains at large. My suspect list is down to seven. That's because the same aroma has been known to waft about in the class before lunch. And the prime suspect has lunch at the same table as the red-handed violator. It would only stand to reason, don't you think, that birds of a feather would moisturize together? What are the odds that two completely unacquainted lasses from two completely different lunch tables would use the same lotion?
Don't think for an instant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is oblivious to what goes on in her domain. It's just that this teaching behavior kind of gets in the way of patrolling the area for edible contraband, cell phones, bullies, sleepers, litterers, other-homework-doers, desk-drawers, shirkers, the pencil-less, book-less, shoeless, too-much-skinners, and inappropriate advertisers. I knew. I smelled. I finished the lesson while drowning in my own secretions. But by then, the illicit act was fini. Short of traversing the room and sniffing each one, I was not going to get a confession, nor a ratting. Tomorrow I will remain ever-vigilant. The perpetrator must be brought to justice.
I might need to requisition a hazmat suit.