COLOGNE CAN KILL YA!

Hello again, and welcome back to my blog. Did you ever wonder how many things there are out there in your world that can kill you? Sure, there are the obvious, like cars, buses, runaway tractor trailers, and falling debris from the international space station. But closer to home, there are enemies out there you might not even realize are just itching to take away your precious life. One of mine came in a small, slightly unadorned blue cobalt vial.

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I found out the hard way that I was highly allergic to certain fragrances.  I almost died!  There is a scientific name for it.  It’s called being “fragrant intolerant”.

One day in early December when I was about 15 years old, I went scrounging around my mother’s bedroom vanity for some clue about what to get her for Christmas that year.  It was on a quiet Saturday afternoon and the house was pretty empty, except for my youngest brother tinkering around in the basement with some sort of automotive contraption.  Most of the kids either had cheerleading practice or were out with friends. A small, pink piece of paper was taped to the fridge door with a note scrawled on it… “OVER M’s”.  Mom was across the street having tea and lemon scones with our neighbor Millie.  This gave me the perfect chance to go rustling through her belongings, to maybe get an idea of what kind of Christmas gift she would want. 

My mother was very meticulous about her bedroom.  From the neatly pressed café curtains to the wrinkle-free comforter, there wasn’t even a hairpin out of place.  Her fuzzy pink slippers sat close together like dainty soldiers at the foot of the bed, and even the dust ruffle around the box spring was neatly arranged so that there was no more than one inch above the carpet around the entire circumference.  Even the small ,beige Bulova alarm clock on her nightstand was facing due north so as to not upset the balance between the lamp and small pink ceramic tray that held her reading glasses. Her room was so clean that even dust bunnies refused to congregate under her bed, for fear of getting sucked up by one of her half-dozen vacuum cleaners. 

I’ve always had a sensitivity to smells. Mom always used me to sniff out something in the refrigerator that might have gone slightly past its expiration date. My special olfactory gift came in especially handy when it came to milk or cream, and the kids’ morning cereal was never compromised by serving them not-so-fresh dairy products. 

Springtime was especially challenging for me ,as I could “smell the roses” even before they were in full bloom.  I had to be really careful around anything aerosol that came from a can. Some fragrances gave me an instant headache and induced nausea.  Colognes were my enemy and the stronger they were, the more they affected me.  Mom often said that perfume was my kryptonite.

I walked over to Mom’s vanity and began looking at all the different beauty products she had laying on the mirror-laden chrome tray. 

Everything was lined up perfectly just as I expected.  There was a set of long-handled pink plastic-covered items; one looked like a hairbrush and the other was a handheld mirror. Their handles laid there crisscrossed.  Next to them was a small, round pink container that held a puffy woolen pad and what looked like a mound of dry, pinkish brown clay.  To complete the ensemble was a pink, plastic tissue box that was strangely empty of tissues.  I thought to myself, I could give her a year’s supply of Kleenex but that probably wouldn’t go over well as a Christmas gift.

Over to the right of the vanity set, I noticed a number of small dark blue bottles.  One of them had a silver twist cap, and the others just had small brown corks in them.  I wandered over to the silver-capped one and read the label: “Midnight in Paris”.  Under that it said, “Eau de cologne”.  This was my first encounter with my kryptonite.  I twisted off the cap and took a large, deep whiff.   

I woke up to a sharp, swift slap to my face and my mother kneeling over me, her face noticeably in distress.  “What the hell were you thinking?” she asked.  I couldn’t react fast enough when she grilled me again. “You know you can’t stand perfume!” she yelled. I tried to sit up, but my head was pounding. “Just stay there!” mom exclaimed, as she got up to get me a wet cloth for my face.

I regained a little mobility after five minutes or so. The smell in the room was still intense, so I had to pull my t-shirt up over my nose, to keep from passing out again.  Then I noticed that mom was already trying to sop up a large amount of spilled perfume from the soaked carpet.  “You better get out of here before we have to call for a coroner”, she said. I grabbed the wet towel sitting next to me, placed it over my face, got up and walked into the living room. 

Moments later she came out to check on me. “What were you doing with my perfume in the first place?” she demanded to know.  I had to confess the truth, because no matter what I could have made up, she wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

“I was looking for something to get you for Christmas and I thought you might like some new cologne or powder”, I replied. “So, you had to smell it and put yourself in danger?” she continued.  

“Honestly, Mom, I didn’t think It would affect me so badly”, I said.  “Well at least now you know!” she replied.

I recovered, but I realized, there and then, I would have to be more careful in the future.  To this day, I can’t step foot into an elevator if there might be even just one young man or lady wearing way too much cologne, or I would be on the ground before we reached the fifth floor. 

Being fragrant intolerant does have its benefits sometimes.  I once got reassigned to a first-class airline seat, when I complained to the flight attendant about the overabundance of perfume on my seatmate while traveling to London. 

Seating at concerts, movie theatres, and even standing in line at the DMV also prove to be quite challenging for me.  Even a hint of Chanel No. 5, or the obnoxious smell of Patchouli oil, will make my head spin. Some people describe Patchouli as a grounding and emotionally balancing scent, that helps relax both the mind and body. For me, all that relaxing would probably land me in a coffin.

 I brought mom yet another Eureka vacuum that Christmas.  She loved it, and my future life on the planet was spared.