A few days ago, I wore Yves Rocher Thé Vert to my MRI appointment, theorizing that its "healthy" qualities would put me in the right mindframe (snurk!) to have my brain scanned six ways to a Sunday. I'm not sure why I felt differently about my subsequent EEG; it's not that Thé Vert failed to soothe me in my hour of need, and I definitely still felt in need of olfactory comfort. But I felt off-kilter. I needed to get back in the Soivohle saddle. And having traversed it once, I had no inclination to take the Tea Road again.
Originally, I'd intended to wear an obtrusive fragrance with very little sillage and even less persistence, out of deference to my fellow medical patients. Why, then, Cordovan Rose-- a fragrance which refuses to be quiet and demure, and which would never consent to disappear without a trace? Perhaps it was the weather (cool, grey, drizzling). Perhaps it was my mood (restless, anxious, uncertain). Perhaps it was my instinct that staring mortality in the face is not an activity best accomplished in the company of a fragrance as vague and ephemeral as Thé Vert.
I wanted ballast. I wanted courage. I wanted leather and roses.
I got them, too-- sure as shootin'.