Here's where I confess that I'm a heavy-duty sweater -- as in, I've considered Botox to decrease the output. I can't wear bright colors; silk is most definitely out; even button-ups pose problems. I carry antiperspirant everywhere, the way others do lip balm.

It's also significant to note that Jessica works out hardcore every day at lunch. It's a habit she refuses to give up, no matter how bad things may get.

Today, I can smell myself. The scent is skunky and oniony. Rubbing the mist into my armpits does nothing to alleviate it. I keep my arms pinned to my sides all day. At lunch, I put on a jacket so I can sit with the team without making them gag.

As soon as I get home, I put on a clean t-shirt. My husband agrees to spoon that night -- as long as I'm the big spoon.

I wake up with raw, chafed armpits from the constant wetness. I realize the electric trimmer I bought will go unused, and that armpit hair will be my ally against friction. My husband, already cranky about the project, vehemently disagrees.

But today, I get to rinse. I stand in an empty tub with a cup of water, which I ceremoniously splash onto my face, armpits and lady parts. Water has never felt so luxurious. By now, I thought I'd be coated in grease. Instead, my skin is uncomfortably dry, and my lip balm fantasies border on obscene.

My hair, on the other hand, is stringy AF. By midday, when I run a brush through my hair, it stays slicked back. The patch of psoriasis on my scalp cannot handle the squalor and starts to flare up. I spritz it with Mother Dirt in hopes it will alleviate the itch. It does for awhile.

When I complain to my husband that I look and feel disgusting, he thinks I'm being dramatic. After all, it's not the first time I've gone three days without showering. But here's the thing: Without dry shampoo, deodorant or even a measly makeup wipe, it feels (and smells) 100 percent worse.

For the first time, I'm grateful our office is freezing. I pile on layers of clothes as a shield between me and my B.O. Jessica, on the other hand, shows up to work in a tank top. We smell her before she comes around the corner. "I thought it would help air my pits out," she offers in defense. I order her to put on her leather jacket. Before she does, she steals pantyliners from the bathroom and tapes them to the armpits of her jacket to avoid ruining it.

I wake up feeling like I slept inside of a dirty gym bag. I spread myself out like a starfish so my limbs, tacky with dirt and sweat, can't stick together.

I get up and pour a cup of coffee. As I wipe down the kitchen counter with a disinfecting wipe, I feel a pang of jealousy, knowing it's cleaner than me at this point.

My coworker bravely volunteers to whiff my armpits (because journalism, you guys) and almost collapses when she does. "That's horrible!" she yells. We agree that my pits radiate the stench of an animal before it dies; it's earthy, musky and pungent, and the smell only grows worse throughout the day.

This will be the last time she -- or any of my coworkers -- agrees to lend a nose. The minute I get home, I spot treat the armpits of my Rebecca Minkoff tee, which I'm sure I ruined for good.

I'm standing on a yacht, surrounded by glamorous women nearly half my age. I'm at a black-and-white themed birthday bash for my real-housewife-in-training coworker, Allie. I'm the oldest person by at least a decade -- and my skin is completely naked. My grease-soaked hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail. To me, the whole look reads austere (Think Holly Hunter in "The Piano"). I've been dreading this night all week. Like most fretting, it turns out to be wasted energy. Allie and her guests tell me my hair looks great, and that I look frustratingly good without makeup. You would never know I haven't showered in six days.

While my confidence is soaring, Jessica's is at an all-time low. The combination of daily workouts and not bathing has given her a major case of cystic acne, which she attempts to resolve by strapping an ice pack to her face. Tonight, she also has a swanky party to attend. Like me, she's overly anxious, thinking about meeting strangers without a lick of cover-up or deodorant. Her discovery that night: "The more you drink, the more you don't care about the fact that you look like a troll. In fact, you become more confident."