I was on a walk the other day and passed a woman who smelled like she had just stepped out of the shower. The fresh, pleasant scent wafted down the street, making me smile. Why would that scent make me happy?
We live in a world of smell: the scent of bread and comfort emanating from our local bakery, the redolance of rotting bananas (at least to my nose) in decaying leaves on a moist autumn day, the wet fur of a dog, an abandoned house. Smell is perhaps our oldest sense and is intricately connected to our emotional life. Two recent films, both French of course, The Rosemaker and Perfumes, celebrate our noses’ ability to appreciate scent – from tobacco and bubblegum to cedar and frangipane.
My husband Ron used to think I was silly when I would bury my face in his neck and tell him he smells like dill. His unique aroma is apparently one of the reasons I’m attracted to him. Study after study shows that we pick friends who share similar olfactory emanations. We even like to smell ourselves, especially after being in contact with others. Watch people at a party. After shaking hands, it’s usually only a few minutes before one or the other touches their own face, wipes a nose, or brings fingers to lips. We’re sniffing each other all the time.
Now that the golden age of streaming has been hijacked by commercials (unless you are willing to pay premium subscriptions for everything), we find ourselves barraged by commercials about odors. There is Fresh Scent Gain, where various middle aged men seem to be having an erotic experience in public by smelling their collars. Febreze commercials make every habitation from home to car a warren of repulsion unless you fill the house with their odor canceling chemicals. The other day I accidentally bought “lavender scented” garbage bags because I didn’t read the fine print, (or grok the lovely purple packaging). From toilet paper to hand sanitizer we are barraged by scents designed to make us happy.
I’ll admit, when Ron has worn a t-shirt too many days in a row, I will kindly suggest a shower. But I wonder if all these chemicals might be masking other smells: the pungency of hard work, the odor of aggression, the perfume of love. Are we destined to become like the bears in the Charmin commercial, floating on clouds of artificial stimulants that literally affect our mood? Is it a bad thing to float toward a pleasant scent like Bugs Bunny? Will we someday be no longer able to recognize or tolerate the smell of hard work, of danger, or an impending storm?
A friend of mine lost his sense of smell, and with it, his sense of taste. With that loss, a portion of life’s pleasure departed. He once said he’d do anything to regain the ability to smell a city street. As much as I love a pleasant smell, I’d like to have both the good and the bad. Because without the bad, how long will I appreciate the other?
I don’t have a smelling lesson for you. But here’s a breathing lesson that could help your nose and the rest of your breathing mechanism become more sensitive and supple.
Have a smelly day!