GIVE IT THE AXE!

So, one thing about having an adult male "child" live with you is knowing when he leaves for work by the scent of his Axe cologne spray permeating every square inch of breathable air space in our home for about 15 minutes post exit.  Who makes this stuff?  And why?  Ohmygod!  It's not unpleasant, really, but it is insistent.

The description:  "A unique all over body spray with a premium fragrance to keep you smelling great all day or all night."  The directions:  "Just hold the can six inches from your body and spray it on your chest and neck."

I've seen him spray it -- usually more than six inches away from his body, with far less than full coverage of chest and neck.  I mean, for as little as he uses, the residual odor would seem to indicate he'd just filled the tub with the stuff.  I have to wonder if it's the aerosol that distributes it so widely.  Can't they make it in a nice little liquid that he could dab behind his ears?

Hub doesn't use cologne; never has that I recall.  And I don't use perfumes or colognes either.  They sort of choke me and give me a headache.  I'm not sure when this started to be the case.

I remember rather fondly the smell of my dad's Old Spice After Shave.   As a little girl I would sit on the edge of the tub and watch him at the sink, lathering up his shaving cream and dabbing it all over his beard with a fluffy brush.  Then he'd take his Gillette and in smooth, sure strokes remove all those prickly whiskers until he was clean-shaven.  He finished by shaking his Old Spice from that smooth cream-color container with the exotic sailing ship (exotic for us in landlocked Illinois corn country), and rub it between his hands, then all over his face.  It was a ritual I never tired of observing.

I also remember when Brute and English Leather colognes were all the rage for adolescent boys.  In 8th grade I was mad for a boy nicknamed Bo.  He was a bit of a bad boy -- in fact, the first in a long line of bad boys I seemed to be attracted to for some time.  (I did end up with a decidedly stalwart "good boy" for which I am most grateful and which likely explains our 42 year and counting marriage.)  Bo and I ended up at a party together in some kid's basement and then gravitated to a big cushy chair in the corner where we commenced to "making out".    (Thinking about this now I am appalled at how young I was for such activity, although at the time I felt oh so mature.)    The whole little session really amounted to only a lot of kissing, and the happy transfer of his English Leather cologne onto the collar and shoulders of my groovy new Madras plaid blouse.  When I got home I could still smell it.  That shirt hung on the back of the chair in my room for a week's worth of olfactory reminiscence.  Then my mom decided to wash it.

During my hippie period Patchouli, of course, was the ubiquitous scent, mixed with a healthy wafting dose of Nag Champa incense.   So whenever I (rarely) get a whiff of Patchouli these days, I'm right back there lazing about in some black-lit room doing the things we did then…. 'nuff said.

Isn't it funny how our noses are often better historians than our brains?  They say the sense of smell is the most powerful of all our senses and governs way more than we realize in how we decide, love, attract and repel experiences.

It could very well be that years from now, I'll catch a whiff of Axe while walking down the street and suddenly I'll be stopped in my tracks with a longing for Son-Two to fill the house once again with the odorous overtones of his morning body spray ritual.

But probably not.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©