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."

During a recent get-together, I tell my friends what I'm up to. "Committing to a month without showering also means committing to a month without sex," says my girlfriend. In unison, the men in the room reply, "Why?"

So I really shouldn't have been surprised when, two days later, as I walk into the house covered in dirt from doing yard work all day, my husband tries to get frisky with me. And it should come as no surprise to the women reading this that I decline.

For the first time in a week, I wear my hair down. It's clumpy with grease and smells like a moth-addled basement. On the way to work, I stop at the supermarket. It feels wrong to be handling fresh produce. I fully expect someone to mistake me for homeless and ask me to leave. I am befuddled when no one so much as gives me a second glance.

"Uh, that's because your hair looks wet," says my coworker, when I later explain what happened.

Jessica and I have serious dandruff, and our scalps itch like crazy. Flakes of dead skin dot our hairlines. No matter how many times we run a brush through our hair, we can't get it to budge -- the grease holds onto it like glue. When Jessica scratches her head, her nails are filled with soft, damp scalp.

Our managing editor feels her gag reflex kick in and has to leave the room.