My husband started to smell really bad… I mean, REEK. It wasn’t just the usual after-gym odor or the result of skipping a shower. It was something… off. Acrid, strange, and growing worse by the day. I tried not to overreact, but after a week of him walking around like a human-sized dirty sock, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“Maybe it’s stress?” he suggested, spritzing cologne like it was holy water.

“Stress doesn’t smell like that,” I told him, pinching my nose. “Make an appointment with the doctor. Now.”

He grumbled, but he knew I was right. The stench was undeniable. So, I made an appointment with a urologist for him and decided to go along for support. You know, in sickness and in health.

We arrived at the clinic, checked in, and sat in the waiting room in awkward silence. The receptionist gave us a forced smile from behind the counter. I could tell she noticed the smell too.

Soon enough, his name was called. He stood, adjusted his jacket nervously, and walked in. The doctor greeted him and shut the door.

I stayed in the waiting area, flipping through an old magazine, my mind wandering through worst-case scenarios. What if it was something serious? What if he needed surgery? What if…

Five minutes later, the doctor emerged, alone.

His face was beet red.

He looked around, then made eye contact with me. His lips twitched as he tried, and failed, to maintain a straight face.

“Ma’am…” he began, clearing his throat. “You might want to go in and see for yourself.”

My eyebrows furrowed. “Excuse me? What’s going on? Why are you laughing?”

He shook his head, still clearly amused, and motioned toward the room. I stood up, my heart pounding. I had no idea what I was walking into.

I opened the door slowly.

There he was. My husband. Red-faced. Sheepish.

He looked at me and said, “Honey… I’m not sure how to say this…”

I stepped in, glancing at the examination table, expecting… something.

“Go on,” I said.

He exhaled heavily. “The doctor had me undress. You know, standard checkup stuff. When I dropped my pants, he immediately smelled it too.”

I folded my arms, waiting.

“He checked me out, poked around a bit, and then he found it. The smell. It wasn’t me. Not really.”

I blinked. “Then what was it?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It was… a slice of cheese.”

I stared. “A what?”

“A slice of American cheese. Stuck in my… underwear. Wedged in the lining. Probably from when I made a sandwich in a rush last week and changed for the gym without noticing. I guess it just… stayed there. And fermented.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

He continued, unable to meet my eyes. “The doctor said he thought it was a serious skin infection at first, but when he pulled it out with tweezers and realized it was dairy…”

I burst out laughing.

I tried to stop. I really did. But once it started, it couldn’t be stopped.

Tears streamed down my face. My husband looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“A whole week,” I gasped. “We thought you were dying. And it was a rogue Kraft single.”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” he groaned.

“Not a chance.”

We walked out together, both of us red-faced for different reasons. The doctor gave me a thumbs-up and went back to his office, still chuckling.

Back home, I opened all the windows and threw his gym bag in the wash along with every scrap of laundry he owned.

From that day on, we had a new household rule:

Check your pants for dairy. Always.

And yes, he now sniffs his clothes before wearing them. Just in case.