Arm Pit Hair

I love Mitchum gel deodorant. Twist the knob, three globs of gel pop out, one swipe under each arm, all day protection. Problem is I confused the gel with the rub on because both sticks look alike. I hate the rub on. Every time I use it at least one arm pit hair winds up in the deodorant stick. At my age, losing hair anywhere is traumatic.
You were thinking perhaps this was going to be an entire blog about arm pit hair. I defy anyone, Philip Roth included, to accomplish that. No, I have a more important subject to address, namely, the possible end of the Post Office. My pension comes from the PO--thirty years of mind numbing repetitiveness and stress. The Postmaster General is talking about reducing retiree benefits. If they cut my pension I would not be able to afford my mortgage. I'll be out in the street.
Who could I stay with? My brother's terrier wants its stomach rubbed for hours at a time. Scratch that option. I have friends who are bossy, who tell endlessly long stories, who I suspect snore, who have demon kids, who can't cook, who don't get my sense of humor, who are too upbeat, who are homeless themselves. Could I live in my garage after my condo is repossessed? The woman upstairs lives alone, but she orders pizza at 11:30PM and paces the floor at all hours. I don't need neurosis right now. The shelter is an option. I know self defense and don't sleep that much anyway. I need to find a sturdy baggie for my belongings and warmer clothes for winter. This dissolution of the PO isn't supposed to happen until next summer, but I can't go into denial. One thing for sure--if I'm homeless I'm going to need lots more arm pit gel.