I left New York last week weighed down by clothes, trinkets from foreign lands and my oversized ego. So packed to the gills were my bags that I was forced to leave behind certain yardsticks of civilization, like a razor, my camera charger and, most importantly, my soap. I let my peach fuzz grow out and let my batteries dwindle, but I resolved this weekend that I ought to acquire a cleaning agent, if only to fill my bathroom cubby.

The story of soap in my life has been a complicated one. As a child, I was regarded as fairly precocious in academics and social graces. But hygiene eluded me. I sometimes “faked” showers, turning on the faucet, splashing water on my hair and the walls, and walking out triumphantly in a towel. I picked at my nails not out of nervousness but for lack of a nail clipper. And I am fairly certain that a toothbrush did not enter my mouth for most of 1994. In the fourth grade, I was convinced that playing in the sun had given me a nice tan on my forearms, until closer inspection with a washcloth revealed a layer of brown grime. (By the way, for those of you keeping score at home, the toothbrush comment was “hyperbole.” The rest is true.)

I eventually learned the ropes and now practice what I consider to be pretty fair hygiene. But it is with this backstory that I entered Walgreen’s to find soap. I have been using Old Spice liquid soap for the past few years, but like any great product, it continues to branch out into new variations. Having been gone in the fall, I wasn’t prepared for the galaxy of choices Proctor & Gamble had unleashed on the American consumer. As I slinked into the store and dragged my filthy self down the aisles, I was confronted by not two, not three, but eight different liquid soaps from Old Spice. There were Fresh, Pure Sport, Mountain Rush, Pacific Surge and Arctic Force. In addition, some new offshoot, Red Zone, offered three even more exotic options in the forms of After Hours, Glacial Falls, Aqua Reef.

How, I wondered, was I supposed to pick just one of these delightful scents? First, I asked myself what exactly I was looking for. Was it a smell that I wanted to emanate or a certain personal characteristic I was trying to get across?

If my goal was the former, After Hours seemed the ideal choice. In the end, I’m not cleaning up for my roommate or probation officer, I’m getting sudsy in the hopes of impressing a lady. After Hours also has an adult ring to it. Like I just logged 14 hours at the office, and I’m off to a steak joint and maybe a gentleman’s club. And unlike Mountain Rush or Pacific Surge, which imply a drive for a, shall we say, premature conclusion, After Hours seems to want to make this last for a while. But the new brand, Red Zone, cannot be dissociated in my mind from Stanford’s football fan club and the related failure of its players to come up big in the clutch.

Beyond the outward persona I wish to project, which one captured my real essence? In this regard, After Hours comes up short, because many of my talents are best exhibited during normal, daytime hours, so a soap that limits me identity to the nighttime does not do me justice. Pure Sport was a tempting choice, as I consider myself fairly sporty. But the word “pure,” suggesting that I am purely sports-oriented, cautioned me from that choice, because, again, I consider myself to be something of a Renaissance Man. Most of the other choices faltered because, while I enjoy nature, I can’t say I identify singularly with any one locale, like the mountains, the ocean or a barrier reef. I do consider myself a risk taker though, and I believe that attitude pervades most of my life. Glacial Falls, then, appealed to that sensibility, as I imagined hurling myself off a giant waterfall like 19th century daredevil Sam Patch.

Then a thought came to me. What if I could combine these two goals and pick a soap that would give me a great smell and also say something about my character. Fresh fit those criteria. A clean, crisp, fresh smell is the best way to start a day. Moreover, I consider my personality to be cheeky and fun and my interactions with friends and colleagues to be witty and fresh.

Still, though, I couldn’t bring myself to commit to one scent, and I left the store empty-handed. Lucky for me, my dorm mates have stocked their cubbies with a wide selection of Old Spice liquid soaps, allowing me to choose the one that best suits my mood. Which, in the end, just makes me an asshole.

Tell David which scent you are, or offer him a sniff at dherbert@stanford.edu.