SASIE SEALY

My friend Kate used to spray her stationary with perfume. Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door. One spritz, below the signature. If the letter were to a boy, two spritzes were necessary. The idea, she said, was for the scent to be a part of her signature, an identifier. The fragrance, soaked into the linen paper, would gently waft up to reader’s nose, tickling and teasing the senses. “A very sensual thing,” she would assure me. She would nod as she said this, looking straight at me with the certainty of feminine knowledge - a true believer in the heady power of scent.

I, too, am a believer. Jeweled Citrus silkening body lotion. Sun-ripened Raspberry body splash. Willow and Camomile aromatherapy. Pear Glacé fragrant body spray. Swiss Vanilla deep conditioner. I am simultaneously thrilled at the sight of their bottles and slightly abashed at their frivolity. They line my dresser top as signs of my weakness, small luxuries to which I have acquiesced. Vanilla is an especial favorite and dominates my collection: body lotion, body spray, bath gel, soap, lip balm, shampoo and conditioner. I am almost embarrassed when listing the extent of my accumulation. Yet, I like the way they make me feel. I like knowing when I smell good.

Smells have always made me feel good. I love the way they sift and slip into my consciousness. Some scents lead to steady intoxication, while others repulse. They are the harbingers of memories and associations, never arriving unaccompanied. Sandalwood. Curry. Orchids. I catalog them in my memory, one by one. So often they are intertwined with my love of food. I adore the pungent smell of tandoori chicken and the sweet, sweet scent of roadside peaches. My mouth waters at the smell of barbecue two blocks away. My mother never measures anything, but cooks by smell and taste alone. Somehow, my entire life can be contained within my catalog of smells. My childhood is all wet grass and the wonderfully artificial scent of orange popsicles. The intrusive smell of bleach is from the linoleum in my high school’s halls; the heavy scent of heat was my graduation. The aroma of jasmine tea leaves brings with it a thousand meals of dim sum, and oolong will always mean a special occasion. And my old boyfriend’s shirts, which I used to wear to bed, always smelled of skin and Tide.

These are the associations that line my dresser. I am fully aware that there are no fresh peaches inside my eight ounce bottle of Bath & Body Works’ peach body lotion. Instead, my nine dollars has purchased Yellow #5, methylparaben, and carbomer - somehow combined to form a lovely peach-like bouquet. Perhaps I am buying some intangible peach orchard from my imagination, or maybe the hope that a boy will believe my skin naturally exudes the fragrance of peaches. Maybe I just don’t trust my own pheromones to do the job. I am never certain of the exact reason for my impulse to own another eight-ounce bottle. I walk through stores and acknowledge the wicker baskets and glossy photos of glistening peaches, and still the urge overwhelms me. Despite the cute baskets and gingham tablecloths, the impossibility of a roadside peach stand inside a mall does not escape me. I ignore these contradictions. The fragrance of peaches has reached me, and a gift basket has caught my eye.

Still, scented soaps and lotions are merely the edge of the scented world. There is another tier that lies between the pages of Vogue and on department store counters, resting on the wrists of the department store clerks. Their elegant bottles boast names written in elegant script, labels that bare one-word titles. Obsession. One. Be. These smells have transcended selling us the past, instead hawking the grand realm of the imagined possible. What exactly would obsession smell like? Kate Moss answers the question in Calvin Klein jeans and come-hither eyes. What if you smelled like Kate Moss? What if you could be Kate Moss? These are expensive questions, answered by girls on horseback and violin accompaniment. A smell is no longer just a memory, but has metamorphosed into fantasy. Perhaps a boy will now think my skin naturally exudes obsession. Or maybe we’ll ride off on horseback wearing Calvin Klein jeans.

Either way, I’d still smell good, and perhaps somehow better than a peach-like bouquet. Fifty dollars better. Either way, both my plastic bottle and glass carafe probably contain some methylparaben and carbomer. And either way, both Calvin Klein and Bath & Body are trying to woo me with the same tune. My associations have been distilled into organic compounds, so much experience trapped in a tiny bottle. The irony is that the wooing works every time. I can hold Kate Moss at a distance and regard wicker baskets with a jaded eye, but in the end I have already purchased my white horses and peach orchards. Like everyone else, I have given in to a whiff of vanilla and the assurances of sales clerks. It’s an indulgence, and there are no regrets.

I’ve read lately that the science of smells is breaking new ground. Aromatherapy. Researchers can now control our moods and impulses with a different fragrance. Professional smellers have testified. Storeowners pump orchid and lilac scents into the store and experience a 10% increase in sales. They say that floral scents soothe consumers, lulling them into a purchase. Supermarkets are experimenting with food smells that intensify hunger and are expecting a huge jump in profits sometime in the future. Therapists now claim that certain fragrances act as aphrodisiacs, mimicking our natural pheromones. An improvement in your sex life is guaranteed. I can’t wait to try it.