Call me unfaithful to a cause: I absolutely could not wear any Soivohle today. A crappy night's sleep, anxiety surrounding my MRI/EEG results, the soul-grinding prospect of another Monday opening shift-- all these convinced me beyond any doubt that if I wore ANY perfume today, I would end up HATING IT FOREVER. Yet I couldn't go without, so into my stash I plunged-- emerging with my spray decant (courtesy of Sweet Suzanne) of Fumerie Turque clutched in one hand. Now, not that I ever want to dislike this splendid incense-and-tobacco-smoke fragrance; nothing short of the Apocalypse could make me think it smelled less than beautiful. But you try holding that thought after your fifth hot flash of the morning. At a certain point, all I could smell was my own flop sweat; no perfume, however bold, could break through that olfactory picket line.
Sorry, Fumerie Turque. Some battles you can't help but lose.