Contemplating the scent of the day, I think to myself, “boy, do I smell.” And I do. Yesterday I doused myself in Traversée du Bosphore, then received a package in the mail a few hours later—my Al Oudh split! … Which had leaked in the package, and I found myself covered in (quite literally) after carefully extracting the precious atomizer. Then, to top it off, before bed last night I liberally sprayed myself again with TdB.
And now I smell.
I think of my heroine Katie Puckrik (whom my husband declares, “oozes sexuality”) and her “prison tattoo’s”— labeling each part of her arms so she can remember what perfume she’s got where. Her poor husband. She’s quirky, dorky, clever, and endearing. I’m trying to think of myself in those terms as I ponder whether to add another layer to my already smelly self.
Probably a good idea to wait for the mailman, and see if anything new arrives.