Sniff the World Goodbye

A woman we have known for years refused an invitation to a dinner party at our house recently on the grounds that it could make her environmentally ill.

When I asked what she meant, she said she’d noticed that at our last party some of the women wore perfume and the men cologne.

“It wasn’t a fragrance-free party,” she said.

“That’s right,” I replied. “Some of them also drank alcohol, ate chicken and, one presumes, wore nylon underwear. It was therefore not an alcohol-free, chicken-free or underwear-free party. What’s your point?”

“It’s not a laughing matter,” she said in a tone reserved for incorrigible children or demented uncles. “I’ve discovered that I am chemically sensitive.”

She let that sink in for a moment and then added: “It’s the wave of the future.”

Oh my God.

She was serious. The woman, whose name is Edna, adopts every new cause that comes down the Hollywood Freeway and this is her latest: the creation of a hypoallergenic world.

I’m not surprised. A born crusader, the only environmental group she has ever knowingly avoided was an organization convinced that cow flatulence was damaging the ozone layer.

She agreed that it probably was but didn’t know what to do about it.

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The allergenic condition of which Edna spoke is called Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, or MCS for the culturally hip. By one estimate, 40,000 Americans suffer from MCS. By another, about 100 million. Take your pick.

It has gained such popular recognition that some churches and governmental agencies have declared themselves fragrance-free, banning aromatic accessories while in the presence of God or the bureaucracies.

San Francisco adopted a fragrance-free plan once but, like the war on cow flatulence, it was deemed impossible to implement and went unenforced.

In wealthy Marin County, hot tub capital of the world, our tax money helped build a $4.5-million prototype “Ecology House” apartment complex for those who claimed to suffer from chemical allergies.

Not only couldn’t you wear perfume to live there, but a “sniff team” was employed to smell the raw building materials in order to detect potentially irritating chemicals.

Those who ultimately moved in got sick anyhow and the whole thing was declared a disaster not unlike the ballyhooed creation of hypoallergenic dog kibbles that caused the animals to vomit and pass out.

News of the fiasco, however, has failed to damp the hot evangelistic zeal of those who have convinced themselves that perfume, like cigarette smoke and cheap wine, is hazardous to one’s health.

A particularly vocal proselyte has promised that 10 years from now it will be politically incorrect to wear fragrances in public, whether you’re daubing yourself with Giorgio or splashing Old Spice on your weathered face.

I say it’s a campaign I’m not about to join.

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I no longer feel able to keep up with the sensitive, ‘90s kind of crusades that are threatening to drown us in political correctitude. I lack the ability of Sally Struthers to cry for the world at a moment’s notice.

Oh, I’ve joined some crusades over the years. I raised my voice in defense of the California condor, as stupid as the beast seems, and was one of the first signers of the historic Manatee Rights Declaration.

I only eat tuna that is dolphin-safe, I don’t play with war toys, I won’t wear ermine, I don’t use aerosol sprays and when Willy was imprisoned in Mexico I prayed for his freedom.

You have probably seen me at candlelight ceremonies against acid rain and found me next to you swaying gently to the music at concerts held to raise money for snail darter safety zones.

I even fought the disposal diaper industry for mucking up our city dumps, although I will admit I was a little confused in the war against fruit flies whether I ought to protest the chemicals falling on our heads or the brutality committed against one of God’s little flying friends.

Despite my liberal cant, however, I will not join the crusade to ban perfume, though it was pointed out to me that even moths have abandoned enticing odors as a means of attracting a mate. Now they click instead.

I personally would not like to hear women clicking up and down the street, but, despite its audiological hazards, I wouldn’t protest. There’s enough in the world that’s wrong and dangerous to worry about perfume and a little clickety-clacking among the singles.

I wish, however, that Edna would do something about those damned cows.

(Al Martinez can be reached through the Internet at al.martinez@latimes.com)