I was walking through Home Depot the other day, minding my own, when my head suddenly swiveled around. It was involuntary. A reflex.
I stopped and sniffed loudly, like an ancient beagle who might have smelled a rabbit but also might be dreaming. I turned toward a man walking by, and it hit me: He was wearing Aramis.
Suddenly, I was back in college, dating a dreamy guy who smelled like leather, sea air and citrus.
Peter wore Aramis for years — and might still, for all I know — and it subtly permeated his clothes, hair and skin. Today, we’d call it his signature scent. Back then, I just knew I wanted to smell him forever. When we were apart (he had a sweet summer gig delivering sailboats up and down the East Coast), I’d inhale his shirts like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
We broke up 40 years ago. But my nose remembers him to this day.
Neuroscientists say odor-linked memories are the most powerful: One whiff of a long-ago scent can conjure up a time, place or person. It’s called the Proust effect (although I don’t know anyone who’s actually read Proust because that dude was long-winded.) When he dipped a cookie in his tea, the smell brought back his entire childhood.
That makes sense. My dad drove a Merita bread truck and smoked Pall-Malls. When he came home at night, I smelled the yeasty sweetness of fresh bread and cakes mingled with sweat, smoke and diesel fuel. It was heavenly; if they could bottle that stuff, I’d buy it today.
Mom wore White Shoulders for 65 years. The scent was like lilacs and Gardenias had a baby. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it made a statement, much like Mom. After she died, I found my oldest brother, Bubba, sitting on her bed with his face buried in one of her nightgowns. White Shoulders is still around, but I don’t know anyone who wears it.
Remember Obsession by Calvin Klein? It was popular during my clubbing days (don’t judge), and it smelled like hope and money. I adored it. I finally bought some, and … it smelled like Raid on me. I mean, it made my eyes water. I passed it on to my spinster aunt, who never went near a nightclub in her life. It smelled divine on her.
A few years back, I bought some after-bath body oil crafted by a friend of a friend in Brooklyn. Sesame oil, tuberose, lavender … I got out of the tub and slathered it on. I felt so fancy, y’all. An hour later, Widdle walked into the house and yelled, “What is that STANK?!?” I was running around checking the trash cans.
Then Widdle said, “It’s coming from your bathroom. No, it’s YOU.”
I was offended, but he was serious. His eyes were swelling, and he kept making gaggy noises. I threw the entire bottle away — 25 bucks down the drain.
I wore Clinique’s Happy for many years until I started smelling myself on every other woman I met. After a few years of wearing Tresor by Lancome, I quit the perfume habit entirely. It happens.
But this past month, on a whim, I bought a bottle of Un Jardin Sur le Nil by Hermes. It smells like tangerines and clean sheets. Widdle loves it.
The only problem is, my tongue can’t pronounce it. It means “Garden on the Nile,” but I can’t say it even after four years of French in high school.
Hermes is easier: Air-mez, which means “costs too much.”
Smell you later!
Julie R. Smith, who loves the smell of dogs’ paws, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.
