Marlene, 66, had made up her mind. After 38 years married to Ron, and six years a widow, she was done with romance. A retired school cafeteria manager, she filled her week with church on Sundays, the food pantry on Thursdays and her granddaughter's softball games. She had even moved across town to be ten minutes from her daughter, Kim.
"I'd had my great love," she told us. "I wasn't looking."
Then Frank started sitting in the pew behind her.
A first date that ended at 7:40
Frank is 69, a retired mail carrier who lost his wife four years ago. For about a year the two of them just talked in the church parking lot, about tomatoes and about his late wife's rose bushes, which he was trying to keep alive.
In October he asked her to dinner at a catfish place out on Route 9. It was Marlene's first date in 44 years.
"I bought a new blouse," she said, laughing. "I set my hair. I was 66 going on 16."
Dinner was lovely, she says. But Frank sat back against the booth the whole time. When she leaned over to show him a photo of her granddaughter, he took the phone and looked at it at arm's length.
On the drive home, he cracked his window at the first stoplight. By the highway it was all the way down. It was 38 degrees.
"He said, 'Warm in here, isn't it?'" Marlene remembers. "It was not warm in there."
He walked her to the door and was back in his car before she got her key in the lock. He didn't call that week. The next Sunday, he sat three rows back.
A few days later, from behind the church kitchen door, she heard two women at the coffee urn. "Frank said she was lovely. He just couldn't. Not in the car." And then: "You'd think somebody in her family would tell her."
"I was 66 years old, and I felt like the girl nobody asks to dance. Only this time I had no idea why."Marlene, 66
The signs she had missed
That night, sitting on the edge of her bed, Marlene began to see a pattern she had been explaining away for years.
- Her granddaughter, Lily, had switched from sitting in her lap to quick side hugs.
- Kim opened the kitchen window "for some air" on every visit, even in winter.
- A friend from the food pantry had moved from their shared table to the far end, by the bread.
- In his last year, Ron had asked her twice if she had changed her soap.
"Everybody had been trying to tell me," she said. "And I couldn't smell a thing on myself."
Everything she tried
For two weeks, Marlene threw money at it. The strongest body wash at the store. A new deodorant, twice a day. A $40 bottle of perfume. She washed every sweater after one wear.
"I spent close to a hundred dollars," she said. "I smelled like a department store, and Frank still sat three rows back."
She skipped church twice and told Kim she had a cold.
The friend who finally said it
The turn came from Patty, 71, who runs the food pantry. When Marlene missed two Thursdays in a row, Patty showed up on her porch with a pot of chicken soup. Over the second cup of coffee, Marlene told her everything.
"I'm going to tell you," Patty said, "because nobody told me, and I lost two years."
Why soap can't wash it off
What Patty explained is simple, and almost nobody knows it.
As we get older, usually after 40, the skin starts making something called 2-nonenal (say it "two-NO-nuh-nal"). It's a natural oil with a faint, musty smell, like a closed-up room. It shows up on collars, pillowcases and scarves. It's not poor hygiene. It's biology.
Because it's an oil, regular soap can't wash it off. Soap is made for water-based sweat and everyday dirt. "Ever try to get bacon grease off a pan with plain water?" Patty asked. Perfume and deodorant only sit on top and cover it for a while.
And the person wearing it is the last to know. Your own nose gets used to it, so your brain stops noticing. "That's why it's always the grandkids and the men in the car," Patty said. "They walk into it fresh."
The answer that worked for Patty was persimmon. People in Japan have used it for this for a long time. The tannin in persimmon sticks to that oil and lifts it off the skin, instead of covering it up. Patty used a soap called True Tannin. The company is named after the tannin, and the whole bar is built around it.
| Regular soap | Persimmon tannin soap | |
|---|---|---|
| Made for | Water-based sweat and dirt | The musty oil that comes with age |
| What it does to that oil | Slides right over it | Sticks to it and lifts it off |
| How you use it | Quick lather all over, rinse | Five spots, half a minute, then rinse |
| Older skin | Not made with it in mind | Softened with coconut oil, green tea and hyaluronic acid |
How Marlene uses it
"Patty made me write it on the back of an envelope," Marlene said. "She told me where you put it matters, and how long you leave it on." That oil collects in five spots:
- Back of the neck
- Behind the ears
- Chest
- Upper back
- Hairline
She lathers each spot, leaves the lather on for about half a minute, then rinses. Give it 30 days for the full effect. The bar has no sulfates, no parabens and no heavy synthetic fragrance.
Backed by a 60-day money-back guarantee
The first night, two weeks, one month
Marlene admits she didn't fully believe it. "Soap is soap, I thought. But I had nothing left to try."
- The first night She counted to thirty, slow, with lather on the back of her neck, then the other four spots. "I felt silly." She couldn't tell any difference. Her nose was the one thing that couldn't check.
- Week two At a softball game, Lily climbed into her lap, both arms around her neck, and stayed for two innings.
- Week three Back in her old pew. One of the women from the coffee urn asked if she'd done something new with her hair.
- One month Frank stood shoulder to shoulder with her at fellowship hour and asked her to the high school Christmas concert.
He picked her up at six. It was 29 degrees out. At the first stoplight, he reached over and turned the heat up. "Too warm for you?" he asked.
"It's just right," she told him. At the next light, he took her hand.
"He held my hand all the way there," she said. "I don't think I said ten words. I didn't need to."
Update: Since we first spoke with Marlene, she and Frank have been to the Christmas concert, two church suppers and one very loud game of dominoes at Kim's house. This spring they plan to bring his late wife's roses back. He asked her to help.
I tried it myself
Before writing this, I wanted to try it. I'm 58, and I'll admit I thought this story wasn't about me.
I washed the five spots every evening and counted to thirty each time. I couldn't smell a change on myself, which is exactly the point. But by the third week, my pillowcase no longer had that stale smell by Wednesday. And my husband quietly stopped running the fan on his side of the bed all night.
How much does it cost? Is it worth it?
A bar of True Tannin is $19.95 and lasts about four weeks. That's less than half of what Marlene paid for one bottle of perfume that only covered the problem.
The company stands behind it. Their promise, word for word: "Use it for a full 60 days. If you do not smell fresher, email us and we send back 100% of your money. The bar is yours to keep either way."
Marlene puts it more simply. "I spent six years thinking I was done. I almost let a car window decide it for me."
$19.95 a bar · lasts about four weeks