The other day I was in the car with Hubs, trying to explain my new perfume. I’m not always a perfumey kind of girl; most days I’m lucky to remember deodorant and make sure my socks match. There have been many years of my life when I wouldn’t bother with mascara unless I was going somewhere with white tablecloths, much less invest in something as extravagant as perfume…
There is something, however, about raising two young and wild boys that makes you long for the more feminine touches in life: scarves, shoes, bags, and maybe some good-smelly stuff. It’s like reclaiming a bit of something that got buried under all the mud and Ninja Turtle yogurt. Which is what I was explaining:
Me: So I’m trying this Jimmy Choo perfume, what do you think?
Hubs: It’s nice.
M: Yeah, I like it, too. It’s definitely in the running.
H: In the running for what?
M: To be my signature scent.
M: Yeah. I want a scent that’s me, you know? Something that reminds you of me when I’m not around. Something the boys will associate with me. Like, I want them to have such a deep association with this scent that they won’t be able to date a girl who wears it because it will feel like dating their mom.
M: Yeah, I know. It’s like I am already a passive aggressive mother-in-law, weeding out women before they even hit puberty.
And just when I think Hubs is about to suggest perhaps I need to be spending more time with my psychologist…
H: Well, if that’s your goal, shouldn’t you be wearing trashier perfume?
And THAT’S why I love this guy.
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