Welcome to My Life's Ambition

#1

Some people say I have a boring job. Some might call it the worst job in the world.

Well, you know what the proverbial “they” say… “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. If a girl goes to the bathroom three times during a date she’s bulimic.”

“They” tend to say a lot of things.

Anyway, my job doesn’t suck. In fact it’s actually quite an adventure of the most dangerous and seductive kind. Everyday I wake up, go into work and risk my life and my soul each time I execute the task set before me by the powers that be in my industry. I live by the seat of my pants and by god I couldn’t love life more because of it.

What do I do?

I’m a professional panty-sniffer.

That’s right. You read that correctly. I. Sniff. Panties. For a living.

Don’t you just ache with envy? Don’t you just wish you could be me, maybe for a minute or two during my day?

No? Well, then you’re crazy. Or, worse: a coward.

And you know, I could understand if you were a bit chicken. My job has its risks, after all.

Take for example, this past Thursday. 11:38 am, parcel number 24 of the day. A bulk package from Utah, $23 shipping. No merchant return label, invoice enclosed.

I took the box cutter and carefully made an incision just above the returns address label, courtesy of one Elizabeth Shelling, 2132 Lane Way, Salt Lake City. Well, Miss Shelling—let’s see what dirty little secret you’ve hidden away in this tightly wrapped plastic hemorrhage.

Two No Trespass Bras, Petal pink, size 34 B—all seasons. One Knees-Up Boy Short, charcoal-puce, size medium—Summer catalogue, June. Three sets No-Worry Wicking panties, Virgin White, size small—all seasons, recommended Summer catalogue.

Aha. A likely candidate for a miss-sizing. Ladies have a guilty habit of underestimating their own proportions when it comes to catalogue orders. I check the invoice to see if there’s been a return order placed, perhaps for a larger size of the shorts.

None. Only the checklist of Customer Complaint, the numbers 3 and 5 circled with a red, wide-tipped marker that still reeks of preservatives.

3. “It seemed better in the catalogue.” A shameless way to back out of a poorly item. Rather like the ritual seppuku of feudal samurai, only less painless. Admit your mistake, return the item, and continue to be our customer, shame-free.

5. “Misshapen Item.” A risky business. A likely story. Often used by women who have ordered something a bit different from their average selection of undergarments, perhaps something a little bolder, a little more risqué than their norm. Upon slipping into it, however, they are often shocked and betrayed by the body in the mirror, clad in such a disreputable fabric. Or perhaps, some layer of fat, some hidden cellulite is exposed in the cut-out of the garment—something their usual mundane lingerie would have hidden from view. In disgrace, they return it to the warehouse from whence it came, placing the blame entirely upon the item. It’s not their fault that the silk is too taut in the buttocks. It’s not their fault that the crotch-less lace is too crotch-less. Clearly, it is the smallclothes’ fault—a wicked design of the manufacturers to wound one poor woman among thousands who otherwise would have found pleasure in their purchase.

Unless…the item really is misshapen. The silk is stretched; the wire warped into an odd shape through a series of unfortunate misadventures in shipping that would lead to bending, melting, or hyperextension of sensitive materials such as lycra.

In which case…the matter bears investigation.

The invoice does not specify which items bear which reasons for the return. Thus

The first order of business is to remove the clothing from its original packaging, which if often marred by the telltale crinkles and shreds from its previous opening by the eager customer with no scissors handy. And it’s this part of my job that makes me the saddest, really. I think of them, these women who order this clothing, receiving their package with such joy and enthusiasm—tearing at the wrappings like an excited child at a birthday. And then I think of their crestfallen faces as they push their purchases back into the bags, depressed that t heir carefully chosen choices turned out so poorly that they need return what they rightly paid for the privilege of deserving.

Sometimes, in anger then, they cram the product back in—imbibing the fabrics with deep wrinkles. Or worse, they don’t put them back in the bags at all—exposing the product to the harsh scratches and stenches of cardboard or plastic for the long shipping route back to the warehouse. And the most diabolical, the most sinister customer—she will wear the product for a time and roll around in something (cat hair, human excrement, the used shavings of a hamster’s cage) before sending the offending fabric back.

Thankfully, none of that this time. There appear to be no hairs on any of the clothing items. Miss Shelling has refolded the items as close to their original factory creases as she can reckon before sealing them back in their bags with pieces of tape. A considerate customer.

But still a potential hazard.

To know that an item is misshapen, a customer often puts the clothing on and wears it for a considerable amount of time—even an entire night—to determine that something is amiss.

This is where I am the best at what I do. I confess, since I was a small child, I took a certain amount of pleasure in the heady aromas of women’s undergarments in the department store where Mother shopped. I would press my faces to the smooth, cool cups of the bras or the delicate, micro fibers of the underpants and inhale their fresh, sterile scent of chemicals until the tickling in my nose had sent a tingle to my brain where I tilt my head back and shudder with pleasure.

I have long since grown beyond such primitive reactions to stimuli. However, my perceptions of scent have also evolved—lending itself to my job skills, which I employ now to determine if Miss Elizabeth Shelling has indeed worn the product in such a way as to make the return a Bad Return, doomed to the red bin of despair, from which very few items ever return even on Employee Discount Day.

I start with the bras, beginning at the place where the fabric would sit below Miss Shelling’s armpits. I see no discoloration, no hairs—nothing to suggest she had put the bra on and worn it long enough for sweat or armpit hairs to become lodged in the weave of the cotton.

I begin with a tentative whiff. Nothing—not the reek of human odor, nor the crisp chemicals that the factory treats the product with before shipping.

The second inhalation is always the most intriguing. It can yield partial scents of exotic feminine products, toxic traces of hazardous materials, or the delicate undertone of a lady’s natural scent—such a secret to society.

Then comes the moment of truth, the third sniff. It is here that I will make my final decision. Ah, the power I hold over these women! One word from me and these items could be condemned to the Bad Returns bin—or sentenced to a term in the Refurbish Department. Either way, full credit is not returned to the customer in these cases.

But I do not abuse my power, of course. The bras—they are clean and fit to be resold and credit fully reinstated to Miss Shelling. I re-fold and re-wrap them in new, crisp, smooth plastic bags, tags facing out for the computer returns processor to read when entering it into the database.

Next, are the Knees-Up Shorts, in the same manner. Again, nothing amiss.

At last, there are the panties—diaphanous almost in their design, although the wicking material is sturdy.

I see no signs of discoloration or stretching along any of the panties. Indeed, the first two I examine were not even removed from their original packaging.

The third set, however, bears fruit. A mere wafting of aroma, no more on the second sniff. I turn the panties inside out to press the strip of fabric that lay closest to the womanly parts against my discerning nose and give it its third and final sniff.

Feminine odor. The smell is unmistakable. Women smell and that is a fact. It’s nothing against them of course, and yet the need for a lady to hide that below layers and layers of chemicals, simples, herbals, and god knows what else is almost as sad as the woman who returns the bra she waited three to five business days for to arrive in the mail.

But I digress. The panties have been worn. Ergo, it is a Bad Return.

I take up the red hang tag, and the wicked-looking tagging gun. In my pristine handwriting, I label the panties WORN in black ink before sliding the tag onto the gun’s need and the need through the sewn-in care instructions tag of the panties. Then, I fold them, and set the aside to be placed in the bin.

I take up the invoice, circle the items fit to be processed for credit return, and attach it to the stack of neatly-folded, plastic-enclosed items before placing them in a white bin for factory re-stock.

Case closed, job well done. One less soiled panty to be circulated among the finest and fittest in women’s undergarments.

You may say that I take this job too seriously. And in some countries—where hard work is illegal, and body odor valued over hygiene—you may be right. But while you may live in France, I live in America. And by god, I will do my job as any American would—to the letter and to the last panty.

June 4, 2006. 317 panties sniffed.