The Scent of a Woman
It was May of 1989, and as the spring buds blossomed, the first green sprigs of romance sprang forth in my life as well. Much to my surprise, Molly Peterson* invited me to the spring formal. My love life up to that point had consisted of furtive glances, wistful daydreams, rejection, and grim, Morrisseyesque self-pity.
Molly wasn't at all like the girls I could imagine myself with at that point; she seemed well-adjusted, fashionable, and imminently qualified for the seal of parental approval. In other words, not my type. Although I hadn't given her much thought prior to the invitation, I decided to accept, and in the week prior to the dance, I began to notice Molly's subtle, self-assured charms.
Our first kiss was memorable. After long anticipation, I grasped my opportunity by taking a cue from the small bottle of perfume on her nightstand.
"Is this your perfume, Estee Lauder Beautful?"
"Yes."
"Well, it sure smells good, and it suits you well".
That did it.
The next morning, I woke early and actually made it to school on time, eager to see my straightlaced sweetheart in 3rd hour English.
Fate, however, did not smile on our doomed love. That morning was Mr. Boesaker's fetal pig dissection lab in Physiology and Anatomy. While I'm not the squeamish type, the stench was awful, and it lingered in the sinuses long afterwards.
An hour later, Molly came around the corner, emininating Estee Lauder's Beatuiful from every pore. There must have been some chemical compound in both the fetal pig preservation solution and the perfume; I became sick to my stomach, and when she brushed her perfume-doused cheek next to mine, images of slayed pig intestines permanently doused the flames of adolescent passion.
Shortly thereafter, I began avoiding Molly...How can you break it to a woman gently that you'll forever associate her with a dead fetal pig?
Molly wasn't at all like the girls I could imagine myself with at that point; she seemed well-adjusted, fashionable, and imminently qualified for the seal of parental approval. In other words, not my type. Although I hadn't given her much thought prior to the invitation, I decided to accept, and in the week prior to the dance, I began to notice Molly's subtle, self-assured charms.
Our first kiss was memorable. After long anticipation, I grasped my opportunity by taking a cue from the small bottle of perfume on her nightstand.
"Is this your perfume, Estee Lauder Beautful?"
"Yes."
"Well, it sure smells good, and it suits you well".
That did it.
The next morning, I woke early and actually made it to school on time, eager to see my straightlaced sweetheart in 3rd hour English.
Fate, however, did not smile on our doomed love. That morning was Mr. Boesaker's fetal pig dissection lab in Physiology and Anatomy. While I'm not the squeamish type, the stench was awful, and it lingered in the sinuses long afterwards.
An hour later, Molly came around the corner, emininating Estee Lauder's Beatuiful from every pore. There must have been some chemical compound in both the fetal pig preservation solution and the perfume; I became sick to my stomach, and when she brushed her perfume-doused cheek next to mine, images of slayed pig intestines permanently doused the flames of adolescent passion.
Shortly thereafter, I began avoiding Molly...How can you break it to a woman gently that you'll forever associate her with a dead fetal pig?
