There's nothing more secretly thrilling than buying a new perfume. It's been one of my favorite silly little kicks since I was, well, way too young to be wearing perfume. Whatever, I highly doubt I'm the only circa-Gen-X-ish lady whose parents indulged her love of fragrance from a juvenile age (Love's Baby Soft! I had the whole box set of Love's fragrances, including some watery jasmine number plus "Lemon Fresh," because everyone wants to smell like countertop spray!). Then it was Jovan White Musk (SSSEEEXXX) before I progressed into naughtier territory with Skin Musk. Anyway, perfume hound here -- so now I'll describe five of my former favorite scents, plus how they affected my burgeoning ladyhood.
AGE: 14
PERFUME: Calvin Klein Obsession
ME, THEN: SO.F*CKING.MISERABLE. Varying shades of Angela Chase red hair. A walking tailspin, all heightened emotion desperately waving its arms and floundering to poke its head above a roiling ocean of unrestrained angst. I was desperate to be liked, desperate to be loved, and more than desperate for a real, non-Truth-or-Dare-fueled kiss. Somehow I thought wearing an "Adult" fragrance like Obsession would help me reach that goal. It didn't. My friend M. (on right above) and I used to drive around DC listening to REM's "You Are the Everything," theatrically fighting off tears because we wanted, soooooo badly, to be the kind of girl a guy like Michael Stipe would write those kind of lyrics about ("I look at her and I see the beauty of the light of music, the voices talking somewhere in the house, late spring").
ME, THEN: SO.F*CKING.MISERABLE. Varying shades of Angela Chase red hair. A walking tailspin, all heightened emotion desperately waving its arms and floundering to poke its head above a roiling ocean of unrestrained angst. I was desperate to be liked, desperate to be loved, and more than desperate for a real, non-Truth-or-Dare-fueled kiss. Somehow I thought wearing an "Adult" fragrance like Obsession would help me reach that goal. It didn't. My friend M. (on right above) and I used to drive around DC listening to REM's "You Are the Everything," theatrically fighting off tears because we wanted, soooooo badly, to be the kind of girl a guy like Michael Stipe would write those kind of lyrics about ("I look at her and I see the beauty of the light of music, the voices talking somewhere in the house, late spring").
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