I remember the first time I used Mitchum deodorant. It was incredible. I think I was more impressed than when I first heard about landing on the moon, or heart transplants. I mean, Buzz Aldrin never helped me with underarm wetness.

Mitchum didn't exactly work for days at a time, like the ads said, but it worked pretty damn well. Gone were the yellow pit stains. I didn't smell like I collected bottles for a living. It was a miracle!

After a week or so, though, the bubble deflated slightly. In the shower I discovered that I'd created a layer of the stuff in my armpit, and it just did not wash off.

It kind of freaked me out. I'd never had anything on my body that it wasn't possible to remove. I thought switching to Mitchum was a spontaneous, easily reversible thing. I didn't realize it was a commitment, like getting a tattoo.

I scrubbed. I went from Dial to Comet. I used washclothes. I scrubbed myself raw, but it still didn't come off. It felt slick, unlike skin, and it had hermetically sealed my armpits shut.

Can they do that? I wondered. Sell deodorant that you can't remove with lighter fluid?

I put up with it for, oh, maybe twenty years. Got used to it. I didn't sweat, didn't smell. So what if a significant part of my body didn't feel like skin, and repelled soap and water? But eventually my conscience got to me. Aluminum has been known to cause Alzheimer's, and Mitchum has so much aluminum in it I was slowly turning into a cookie sheet.

I went to the drugstore and bought lemongrass-scented deodorant by Tom's of Maine.

I noticed an immediate difference as I applied the soapy substance to my pits: Tom's didn't go on dry. In fact, as I sat there fanning my pits thirty minutes later, it appeared to be immune to that technological breakthrough known as EVAPORATION. Their deodorant wasn't some bizarre, unnameable substance that spread like a liquid but coated like a metal: no, it appeared to be part of the Rice Pudding family. In fact, I thought, they should sell their hydration secrets to Little Debbie, because whatever they put in that deodorant kept my pits moist for weeks. Every time I lifted my arms it sounded like somebody was yanking Rosie O'Donnell out of quicksand.

Rather than hermetically sealing my armpits, they covered the B. O. with the scent of lemongrass. Which, you know, makes sense, because when I play basketball I want everybody to stop and say, "Hey, you smell Pad Thai?"

After a week of having a Saigon rice paddy in each armpit, I switched back. And, though I recycle and reuse and watch what I eat, I realized something:

I like my superchemicals. I don't particularly care if manufacturers dump petrochemicals in major rivers in Mongolia, and I don't particularly care what they do to me. I like the way two weeks after I've brushed with Crest Butt-Crammed With Scope Effluvia somebody asks if I just ate a mint. I like having shields in my armpits that rival the ones surrounding the Starship Enterprise.

So, I'm back. My Mitchum is back; my pit shields are back. I forget that I have little muffin pans coursing through my bloodstream. I know petrochemicals aren't for everybody, but they're just right for me.

If you want deodorant that's safe to eat, get Tom's.

Me, I generally have something in the fridge.