Our date is around the corner, and I’m feeling a bit queasy. I’ve already chickened out more than once, and this time I have to tell him … But how? What is it about telling someone he has bad breath that is so difficult?
I consider a Bad Breath-O-Gram. The Center for Breath Disorders assures me, “if you know a friend, relative or colleague who has breath that, to put it discreetly, would wilt the spines off a cactus, all you have to do is e-mail or snail-mail a note to the center providing the offender’s name and address. The center will tactfully contact that person, mentioning that a well-meaning busybody thought his life would be better if he had more knowledge about halitosis.”
Me? A well-meaning busybody? No, I just want to kiss a guy without having to hold my nose. Is that so wrong? I wonder what it would be like to receive a Bad Breath-O-Gram? Wouldn’t you constantly look over your shoulder, wondering who the sniff-agent is who snuffed you out? How could I face Jerry knowing he’d been humiliated “anonymously” by me!
No, I cared too much for Jerry, the close-talker who politely refused breath mints and who would be sitting beside me in a few short days. I’d consulted half a dozen girlfriends (who consulted husbands and boyfriends), but there is no consensus. Some think there is just no way to tell; others say not to give it a second thought.
Bad breath would normally be a clear red flag falling under the “no chemistry” domain, however, my romantic life being what it is and given the fact that he has other redeeming qualities, I had to make some progress.
Some advice: If you ever date someone with bad breath, and there’s a chance you want to continue to date him, don’t broadcast the news. The more people I told, the more cartoon-like he became. It was becoming harder and harder for me to take him seriously. “I’d give my eyetooth not to have to say this,” I’d begin, or “What I’m about to tell you really stinks: your breath.”
What was I turning into? I had to cut the drama. It’s plain and simple, open and shut. What a sorry person I am, taking pot shots at the expense of one kind-hearted man. What do I value more, a good chuckle or a potential relationship?
I rationalized; maybe he has too much (camembert) on his plate. What he needs is a woman like me to insist that he take better care of himself—and to spare his clients and employees who must have noticed by now. There’s no way I’m the first person to be overpowered by the humidor of his mouth.
I should just call him. Offer the dignity of distance; give him a chance to improve the situation before we met again. But I had pulled back, so we weren’t talking all that much, and the less we talked, the more difficult it was to work it into a casual conversation. No, at this stage of the game there was only one way to go, a face-to-face (hopefully not too close) encounter.
When he leans in to kiss me, I’ll just blurt it out, as though it’s just occurred to me, as though I haven’t been contemplating this and telling everybody about it for weeks.
“Oh,” I’ll say, “your breath’s a little, um, used? Compromised? Kinda funky … Here, have some Sen Sen.”
I don’t know … I’d like to share some results of some useful terminology I found on the Internet. “This is not meant to be amusing,” the unknown author insists, “but rather meant to provide a public service. When someone exhibits bad breath, it is now said that they are, among other things: melting the moustache, farting topside, leaking some limburger, burning tires on their tongue, polluting the local environment, exploring the limits of personal space with every exhalation. Whewwww … a mouthful!”
I try another source. Emily Post advises, “if a person has body odor or bad breath, that person wants to be told about it.” Further, she opines that the recipient of such news will “hopefully be thankful that you’ve brought it to their attention.”
I hope she’s right. Because in the final analysis, I’ve decided to tell him in the best way I know how. I’m publishing my breathless suggestion. I’ve checked with my brother, my dentist, my taxi driver. “I’m concerned,” I say, “about karma. Isn’t this a bit harsh?”
The cabbie pulls me up short. “What’s harsh?” he replies. “Is letting someone go through life skanky harsh?” In other words, I’m doing him—and a small tribe of New Yorkers—a favor. So Jerry, if you’re reading this, I’ve just two words for you: tongue scraper.
Do you have a New York story?
E-mail nystories@nypress.com
