I can’t imagine leaving the house without putting on some perfume. Not because I can’t appreciate my own natural goddess-like scent, ermmm, but because for me, it’s literally the same as putting on shoes. It’s the last thing I do before I shut the door and begin my day. Sure, I’ll admit that sometimes I can over do it and choke everyone to death on the commute but at least the train smells less like fecal matter and coffee breath. See, I’m just a girl, spritzing herself with perfume she can’t afford to make Southern Rail smell better. Good. Deed. Or. What.
I don’t feel ready until I’ve done that whole dab to the wrist, inner elbow and neck thing. Ok I’m lying. I don’t feel ready until I’ve done that whole spray your entire body, your hair and yeah, I’m gonna throw it out there, ya crotch. I know there’s a least one other person that does that and that’s because that other person is my best friend. It’s fine, she’s too busy saving people’s lives to read this.
Just like that feeling a red lip does for you on a sucky Monday after a weekend of rosé and smiley potatoes, perfume makes me feel a little less carby and a little more classy, even if it is just in my imagination. It makes me feel like uh huh, ohhh now I can go to work and write a frigging kick ass viral piece that everyone will share because, I AM WEARING MARC F*CKING JACOBS AND I SMELL LIKE A QUEEN.
You know when you put a pair of heels on and you walk differently? Not just because you can’t mentally locate your little toe anymore, though that has a lot to do with it, but because for whatever reason, those extra inches make you feel like you are a grown ass woman now. And it’s the same story with perfume. You aren’t just any Rachel Green, you are the Ralph Lauren Rachel Green. You are Miranda Priestly. Hell, you are Beyonce. Even if you do still skip the third drain and mime hymns instead of actually singing them at weddings.
So, here’s an oud to a (very select) handful of my favourite scents; thank you for teaching me how to adult.
