A rare 1983 vintage

I went for a 70-minute run this morning. I don't know if it was the hill work or ceiling fans that weren't on, but I was sweating like a fat man in a cake shop. I mean this was a ridiculous amount of sweat. The pooled up sweat from my shorts was splashing onto my calves and the rivers of sweat coming off my elbows were showering the treadmill. I actually started to wonder if I was splashing the people around me.

But then I got a whiff of something. It was subtle at first, but over the course of the run it grew stronger and more fragrant. Now, I know where your mind is going with all the fart and poo talk that I like to throw around, but this wasn't FOM or a sign for me to visit Miguel. I smelled, of all things, wine--white wine to be exact, perhaps a chardonnay.

I looked around at the handul of other runners, they were too far for me to smell them, so it had to be me. I smelled like chardonnay? No, correction: my sweat smelled like chardonnay? What dark magic was this?

I went through the rest of my run convinced I was sweating wine--although I've haven't drank the stuff in a week. When I got home I eagerly woke up wifey and told her to smell me. She gave me one of those "I am waking up just now and you're asking me to do what?" kind of stares that she has perfected over the past few years. I explained to her that my sweat smells like chardonnay. She continues her half-eyed look of death, but braves a sniff. She confirms that I indeed smell: it is funky and rank and I need to shower that stink off.

Huh? But when I was on the treadmill I swore I was an oak barrel and there were several gallons of fermenting grape juice inside of me. What the hell? I take a whiff and sure enough, I now stink. I guess the wine smell is only when I'm actually running. Good thing I'm not an alcoholic because this would have posed a really big issue otherwise.