I made myself a lovely steak and some caesar salad last night.

Both items contained a fair amount of garlic, in the marinade I created for my happy little tenderloin, and in the dressing on the (yay! organic!) romaine hearts.

Which means that I, in turn, contained a fair amount of garlic.

And I think I still do.

This concerns me.

I never like to smell like what I eat, or — worse yet — what I’ve already eaten. The very thought of giving off some weird spicy odor after downing some curry or pasta or stir fry is enough to make me want to spritz perfume all over my body and up the noses of everyone who comes near me.

Most people won’t agree to that.

So I’m stressing.

The perfume thing is a starter solution, but if the garlic is coming out through my pores, I’m just going to end up smelling like (Garlic) Lychee Sugar. Or (Garlic) Vanilla. Or (Garlic) Jasmine.

And I did brush my teeth three times this morning with my Rembrandt toothpaste, and gargle with my Tom’s of Maine mouthwash. But neither one felt significantly burn-y and caustic enough to rid me of garlictude, if in fact I was giving off garlictude.

Did I mention that I dread the possibility of garlictude?

Argh.

It’s amazing how the fear of something so silly can impact how you carry yourself through your day.

I’ve avoided getting too close to people (other than, of course, showing them my underwear on Transit, which was both unexpected AND intimate.) I’ve walked around with my head down, trying to redirect the potential garlic aura away from the heads of others. I’ve tried not to talk too much when anyone has been in the outflow path of my breath. I’ve used lemon hand lotion twice an hour, hoping that it will sink into my pores deep enough to rescue me. I’ve consumed enough mints to recreate the polar ice cap in my stomach. I’ve slugged back enough coffee to make me smell like the ass of Juan Valdez (the one carrying the bag of beans, not the one beneath his poncho) because I’d rather give off that odor than, say, a faint whiff of spaghetti bolognese.

Basically, I’ve become a paranoid, antisocial, jittery freak because I ate garlic.

Remind me not to go to Italy anytime soon.