The Power of Fragrance

My coworker asked me to smell her finger.

“Um, no thank you?” I said.

She rolled her eyes. Where was my sense of adventure?

“It’s a good smell,” she said. “Perfume. You like?” 

Reluctantly I sniffed, and I had to admit, “Your finger smells very nice. Fresh. With a hint of botanicals.”

“It’s a sample from Vogue,” she explained, as I watched her hang the perfume ad in her cubicle with a piece of Scotch tape. “My grandmother would tear these out of magazines and stick them in her underwear drawer.”

ATTENTION COWORKER:
Your Grandmother + Her Underwear =
None of My Business

And yet, what a great idea! Why should I deprive my undergarments of this opportunity? What self-respecting bikini brief wants to smell like a boring old mountain breeze when for no additional cost it could smell like Kate Winslet, Gwyneth Paltrow or Sarah Jessica Parker? I could even stage my underwear drawer to smell like all three actresses, exchanging tips about how to balance the demands of motherhood with the added burdens of shiny hair and colossal wealth. “Keep it simple,” my Gwyneth underwear would say.

I decided to give perfume ads a second chance.

Sniffing my way through the fall fashion issue of Elle, I discovered that my late Italian grandfather had been reincarnated as the new fragrance by Christian Dior. Who knew? In a whiff, I was transported to his Florida home, a place I hold near and dear because it is the only place on earth I have ever heard the words “you need to eat more” directed at me. I rubbed my wrist back and forth across the page, half expecting him to appear like a genie and grant me three heaping bowls of spaghetti. (Eat! Eat! My baby! You too skinny!)

Having seen first-hand the powerful connection between perfume and memory, I began to wonder about my own aromatic legacy. How would my loved ones remember my signature scent? What kind of message was I leaving behind?

I dabbed on a little perfume and snuggled up to my husband on the couch. “I’ve never asked you,” I said, draping my legacy-scented arm over his shoulder. “What do you think of my perfume?”

Ever the hopeless romantic, he leaned in, gazed deep into my eyes and said, “Huh?”

“My perfume,” I coaxed. “What do you think of it?”

“Well, it’s not offensive,” he said, “if that’s what you mean.”

I sighed. “Perhaps you could elaborate a little? Tell me how my fragrance makes you feel.”

By the look on that poor man’s face, you’d have thought I asked him to smell my finger.