Jack Johnson’s song “Bubbly Toes” (you know — the one with the all-too-singable “la da da da da da”’s), is inspired by his wife’s feet which are covered with “scars and tar balls.” This clearly helps to prove point-from-column-number-one, that mundane compliments are no longer in vogue. Complimenting your partner’s quirks and “embarrassing” body parts is all the rage these days. Honey, your pimple adds character (truth). Babyface, I love your back dimples (I have extreme ones). Coochiecoo, you have the most beautiful armpits.

Hold up. ARMPITS?! Ugggg. Who is this girl and why (ew) is she writing about (squirm) armpits??

Because, people, it’s time to reclaim the armpit from the dregs of society. When did armpits become the disgusting body part to be embarrassed about? Moreover, when did armpits become the disgusting body part that we have societal rules about?

What societal rules, you ask? Well, unfortunately, the societal rules about armpits fit perfectly into the double standards that society has for women in general. The two main rules relate to olfaction and form (sound like Olympic judging categories, don’t they?).

Rule number one: olfaction. The proper lady has flower-smelling armpits (and flower-smelling farts, of course — wait! Farting?! We don’t do that!!). Have you ever looked at the marketing on deodorant? By donning Lady Speed Stick, apparently I will be able to go frolicking in a valley of pansies. Or, I can choose to smell like I have just changed a baby’s diaper — which, of course, is just what Society wants women to smell like! We are home gardening and feeding our babies, and what about the men? No, the men’s deodorants are EXTREME. The men are out doing manly man things like playing sports and sweating a lot. Just look at the font — quick, slanted, in a rush, moving from one EXTREME activity to another.

Screw it! I can be EXTREME too. My addiction to “men’s” deodorant started off normally, I guess you would say: borrowing a boyfriend’s hither and thither, or intentionally skeeving out my brother by using his. Then I started to think how much more I enjoyed smelling musky rather than like I was babysitting or arranging bouquets — and I bought my own Red Zone. But for a while, I kept my secret my own.

I recently had to come out of the Old Spice closet when I raised my hand in a wave-like gesture while waiting in line at a café, and a girl in front of me caught wind of my scent and turned around. By the look of disappointment on her face, I could tell she thought I was a hot guy. Girl, if you are reading this, I am sorry for that day.

Second societal norm: form, meaning how you present your pits, meaning shaven or unshaven? This summer I realized that a girl whom I’ve been friends with for two years doesn’t shave her pits! And then I asked myself why it surprised me so much: it wasn’t like this was her statement against society. And then, I really started thinking about this rather bizarre phenomenon of women shaving their pits. I mean, when did it start? Did Mona Lisa have hairy pits, and we’ll just never know? Don’t you think the first woman to take a shard of glass to her underarm was considered, um, a little insane? And now we all do it, every day, unquestioning. And we stare and make quips about the French, whose women stereotypically do not.

But apparently there are some who have rebelled against the stigma attached to armpits — in an extreme way. May I introduce axillism: “sexual climax achieved by masturbating the penis in the armpit of a partner” (definition provided by www.everything2.com). O.K., maybe a lesser-known fetish, but we all have ‘em, right? I can’t speak about axillism from experience (but if you can, PLEASE shoot me an e-mail), but think about the armpit: a small, enclosed, warm space, damp at times. Sound like another part of the body typically associated with sexual pleasure? Hmm…

It’s taken me a while, but I have even come into the open about the skin tab under my right arm that has been genetically passed on for three generations of women on the Rutkin side. I was so embarrassed about this freshman year that my roommate and I tried to tie string around and cut its circulation off. But no more! I do profess I love my pits.

Elbows may enable you to bend your forearm, but armpits are what counts when you raise the roof, embrace, volunteer an answer in class, do the chicken dance: basically, the activities constituting my college life.

So, New Jerseyers, take pride. The next time someone calls your state “the armpit of New York,” you should smile and say thank you. The next time, friend, you tell me that you’re “in the pits,” please don’t find me ill-mannered when I exclaim “that’s great!” Razor-burned, dreds, smooth as a baby’s bottom (or smelling like one); whatever makes your armpits your own, it’s time to own up.

(But, um, maybe if you’re engaging in armpit love, you should keep those personal details to yourself. The world just might not be ready for that quite yet.)

Armpits of the world,

but embarrassment.

Ariela Rutkin-Becker is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at arbecker@cornellsun.com. Dude, Where’s My Karma?­ appears alternate Tuesdays.