A QUARTERLY column from Carrie Brownstein, who is better at dispensing advice than taking it
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Q: I’m an adult. I bathe. And yet people keep giving me soap. My mom slipped a bar into my Easter basket this year. My best friend gifted me a bourbon-scented soap for my birthday. My dad found some artisanal soap at a Ren Faire, and my sister gave me some made by monks in Italy. These are all thoughtful gifts. But I’m starting to wonder if they’re also… pointed.
What began as a quirky gifting trend is beginning to smell like an intervention. I want to ask if there’s some unspoken insinuation—but if the answer isn’t a hard no, isn’t it basically a yes?
So tell me: When does a friendly gesture become a red flag?
Fraser Grant
Columbus, OH
A: There are lots of red flags here, but I think we differ on what they signify. I suppose it speaks to your humility—and a hint of self-deprecation—that you’ve concluded the problem lies with you. My admittedly less generous take is: What is wrong with these people, and why are their gifts so basic and uninspired?
At best, soap is an innocuous gift, likely to end up in a guest bathroom or perfuming a linen closet for the next three years until it’s thrown out. At its worst, soap suggests a last-ditch effort, right below key chains, mugs, or their de rigueur equivalent, the tote bag. Sure, soap might be considered thoughtful if the recipient needs some rest and relaxation, and if it’s bundled with other items to aid with rejuvenation; then again, bath products artfully placed in wicker are the edible arrangements of gift baskets. In fact, to help avoid this blunder, I’ve come up with an aphorism: “A bar of soap is but a cantaloupe.”
Now, let’s say the recurring soap gifts can’t be blamed on the giver’s penchant for the dull and cliché. I still believe your surfeit of suds may not be directly related to body odor. For instance, what if the soap’s scent is less about disguising malodor and more a nod to your interests and hobbies? Think about it: Your best friend knows you like bourbon, and thus assumes you’ll want to exit the shower reeking of Jim Beam. Or maybe the gifts reflect upon the giver and not the recipient. Your dad misses those father-and-son Ren Faire days of yore, and yearns for you to be reminded of his pleated ruffs every time you step into the shower. As for your sister, I bet she left that Italian monastery in a blissed-out fugue state, convinced she should spend less time on her phone or quit her job to help those in need. At a loss for how to begin her new life, she bought soap instead.
OK, Fraser, I can’t avoid this any longer. So far my answer has been a thought exercise, and it’s time I addressed your question head-on. What if you’re right? What if you do smell? Unfortunately, I’m unable to determine or verify this via letters. I do know we can’t always detect our own sour breath or body odor. And, yes, I’d say when someone you’re standing near in a tight space hands you gum, it’s definitely a pointed gesture. Does this also apply to soap? As I’ve outlined above, not necessarily, so I think it’s worth ruminating on the other possibilities. But the only way you’ll know for certain is to come right out and ask, if not your friends and family, then perhaps your physician. If, in the end, you discover your instincts were right—that these gifts were imploring you to clean up your act (and by “act” I mean bits and bobs)—I’ll offer up another pithy phrase so that others might avoid this torturous fate: Not unlike a mint, soap is a hint.
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