I receive a kit with the three varieties of essential oil-scented Takesumi deodorants: Cold-Pressed Rose, Lime Mint, and Juicy Bamboo. The zesty Lime Mint reminds me of a mojito; the Cold-Pressed Rose, of course, feels like the Veuve Clicquot of scents, in that it's fancy, sumptuous, and nothing at all like me. I want to be a Cold-Pressed Rose woman, but I know that out of the three, I’m definitely a Juicy Bamboo: pedestrian and fruity. There’s a slight slimy texture to it, but it rolls on nicely and leaves little residue behind. As the week progresses, I begin to feel holier-than-thou, pitying the chemical-laden pits of the peasants around me. In the bathroom at work, a random colleague catches me reapplying Juicy Bamboo in the mirror. "This deodorant ousts toxins from my body," I say smugly.Time to get serious: I may start offending people this week, and in an effort to fairly report this experience, I’ve decided to outsource my scent checks to others. Febreze commercials have convinced me that you can go nose-blind to odors in your own home, and I won’t allow myself to go nose-blind to my body. A rep for the brand told me that your diet plays a major role, so this entire week I was expecting to smell like hot Chinatown garbage, but the reality was much less fragrant. When I stay out late playing Heads Up at a bar uptown, however, I’m a tad self-conscious when I hold the phone against my forehead. At this point, I may not be wilting flowers, but my underarms feel extremely slick — and not in the Casanova way. I remember that there’s a difference between a deodorant and an antiperspirant, which actually keeps you dry, and I dream fondly of the latter.The cleanse is working out well for me. I have always swiped on regular stick deodorant gingerly, since I’m aware of the murky scientific associations between aluminum and breast cancer , and parabens and endocrine disruption. I apply Takesumi like it’s Benefit They’re Real! Mascara : without restraint. By now, I’m halfway through the process, and since I'm on the hunt for New Year's Eve plans, I’m going on a Bumble date. We arrive at a festive bar, order a few rounds of drinks, and engage in the customary first-date small talk. Since I’m committed to seeking the truth of my tincture, after we’re well and sauced, I tell him about the detox and ask for a review. He replies that I smell great from the neck up, and even though I protest — he should be attracted to my pheromones! See: science — he will not adjust his assessment. I tell him it’s just the fried-egg sandwich I ate that morning.I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer, which may explain the beginning of this week. Toxins, oxen, by the way I smell now, it’s anyone's guess what is going on south of my shoulders. The armpit areas of my tight-fitting sweaters boast a standalone musk — even when I’m not wearing one. That doesn’t stop me from slipping one on for my second date with the aforementioned honest citizen. He takes me ice-skating in Bryant Park, where we hold each other’s sweaty hands for around 40 minutes, and I can only imagine the funk that is brewing around my pits. Later, I ask him again to become acquainted with my aroma; he again tells me I stink.