Burn Baby Burn

With fondness, I remember my daughters’ pre-competition team dance days.  They were two years old on the day of their first dance class, and they turned three a few months before their first recital.  They had just one costume that they wore just a handful of times (trying it on when the shipment first arrived, picture day, dress rehearsal, and recital day).  The routine was similar for the next couple of years; at the end of each, I would place the costumes in a box to be kept in the spare bedroom for playing dress-up.  After the girls grew out of them, I would donate the outfits to our local charity (they use them for Halloween costumes for children who can’t afford them).  Because they had been worn so few times, they were generally in pretty decent shape.

Even once they joined the company, their costumes weren’t so bad at the end of the season.  Sure, they were missing rhinestones, had some smudges, and showed little snags and tears.  But that was to be expected, with no less than five competitions per year.  That minor stuff, I could handle.  

As children tend to do, though, my girls are growing up. Because of the intense amount of physical activity they do, they’ve adopted the habit of wearing deodorant since they were nine years old.   At the time of this writing (September 2020), they are eleven; I expect there to be some degree of funk that will start to develop, especially given the intensity of the activity they’re engaged in.  For heaven’s sake, their dance shoes have developed a rankness that would bring tears to the eyes of the devil himself (and that’s been going on for a couple of years).  And all along, I would hear the complaints from the older dancers’ mothers about how horrible the stench of used costumes was, and would take in all of the advice about how to eliminate the odors as best as humanly possible.  In other words, I knew it was coming; I just didn’t know when.

As it turns out, this was the year.  And it started with just one costume so far – a black leotard with mesh sleeves.  Apparently, whatever the configuration of fabric is, it was designed to hug the armpit of the wearer and extract the most vile essences from the body.  To boot, it will hold them in the threads until the end of time, and nothing short of an exorcism can separate the stink from the cloth.  Even after the FIRST time Jayden wore it, I noticed a bit of pungent acridity clinging to it.  At the time, I thought it was odd.  But I dismissed it (naively), and didn’t think about it again until after their first rehearsal as I was helping her to unpack her things.  I could literally smell it THROUGH THE GARMENT BAG, and I knew I was in for a challenging season.

I know what you’re thinking – “Did you try spraying it with vodka?”  Yes, I did (of course, the guy in the liquor store thought I was nuts when I asked what type of vodka is best at getting odors out).  “Did you use Febreze or something similar?” Yes, I did; I was hopeful at first because the perfume of it was so obvious, but it soon faded away and left the pre-existing stench in its place.  “Did you try washing it?” Yes, I did, but only after another mother washed it first to give me the confidence I needed to give it a try (it’s covered with stones).  While that helped a bit, that stench still clings to the costume like white on rice.

We just competed last night, and I’m not certain if this particular routine is taking the stage next year.  As a precaution, I have the costume hanging outside in the crisp fall breeze as we speak, to air it out as much as humanly possible.  Besides, I don’t want that thing in the house (along with my son’s soccer bag, I just can’t take it anymore). 

Acquiring a flamethrower is my next step.  Burn, baby, burn…

Work hard, have fun! – Danielle

For another nose-hair-burning scenario, go to Hold Your Nose!