I was at camp when I was like eleven or twelve, and my lips got seriously chapped. They were brown, crispy, cracked, bloody. I got no play at spin the bottle. The word is unliplike. And when you're suffering from such a high degree of chappedness, all other aspects of life just fade into the background.
Nothing becomes more important than soothing that sub-philtrum ache.
I ll never forget the distinctive clatter of the steel lid unwinding from the milky white glass jar, and the ethereally pale yellow color of the balm within. And the smell. The smell that is entirely unlike any other odor on this planet, that has accompanied, nay, influenced every sensory experience I have had since that fateful day. You're better off not worrying your pretty little head about that smell. Just sit back and breathe it in and don t ask any questions.