I let my two doe-eyed daughters coax me into Bath and Body Works because I couldn’t resist the chance to spend quality time with them. As a mother of teenagers, I have become like a salivating dog begging for scraps of time—I had to be ready when they threw me a bone.
“Ooh, pumpkin pecan waffles,” Rose said, attacking me with a heavy mist of body spray.
“Dear God.” I coughed and waved a hand in front of my face. “Knock it off.”
“Mom, you love waffles,” she said.
“True, but I don’t want to walk around smelling like it,” I said. “Pumpkin pecan waffles shouldn’t be anyone’s signature scent.” I made her put the bottle back on the shelf.
I pondered the wall of fragrances. Hand soap that smells like a sugar cookie? No thanks, I’m not trying to lure Hansel and Gretel into an oven. I chose a bottle of lotion named Mahogany Teakwood and popped open the cap. “Yuck! Smells like Grandma’s attic.” I snapped the lid closed. My older daughter laughed at my disgust.
“Here, mom.” She offered a slender bottle filled with clear liquid and a gold spritzer. “Smell this one.” She winked at her sister. They got a rise out of my displeasure. I played along.
“What the—Sweet Whiskey?” I said with an exaggerated grimace. I confiscated the bottle of body spray from Elana, my giggling sixteen-year-old. “I do not want to smell like I need a twelve-step program,” I said, putting it back on the shelf.
Rose plucked a scarlet bottle from the end cap. “Vampire blood,” she said holding it up to my face like a can of mace. I grabbed it and gave the nozzle a sniff. I said, “I thought vampires were out of style?” It reminded me of the sugary sweet Woolworth’s perfume I drenched myself in the fifth grade. I suppose that was the intended audience for something this audacious—nine-year-olds, and nostalgic women.
“Look Mom—Milk.” Rose presented me with a white and gold tumbler. Surely, she had read that wrong.
“Lemme see that,” I said inspecting the five ounces of perfume that was in fact named Milk. I shook my head. Did any woman young or old want to smell like they had just suckled an infant? Thirteen years ago, I bought every bra pad and guard available so I wouldn’t draw attention to my heaving milk-filled breasts and leaky nipples. Oh, how baby Rose and I struggled with her inability to latch on. I sighed and smiled at the now plump thirteen-year-old who had no idea my retirement plan was to live in her future garage.
I’m not sure the ad executives knew what they were doing. Did they use focus groups or perform market research at all? Seriously…Milk? Instinctively, I turned the bottle over and looked for an expiration date, perhaps a missing child’s picture. Nothing. The description said, “a creamy, cozy scent.” I pictured the all-male cast of Mad Men gathered 'round the boardroom working on a product pitch.
“Hmm, what says sexy, nourishing, and nostalgic?” Don Draper asks. “Ovaltine” and “Mother” are suggested and shot down. They finally settle on “Milk.”
I winced putting the perfume bottle back. I would have been less disturbed by an index finger in a jar of formaldehyde labeled “C’mere—The Fragrance.”
Some of these had to be a joke. Like maybe the creatives had themselves an afternoon toke before daring each other to present the most ridiculous concoction to senior management—see how far they could push our hippocampi without getting fired. Or was it the amygdala that was triggered by scent? Whatever, the labels were super shiny!
On an adjacent shelf, sat the hand sanitizers. Once essential staples during the pandemic, now on discount. Even I toted Japanese Cherry Blossom mini bottles in my purse during Covid. But nestled right between Meyer Lemon and Sandalwood was something called White T-shirt.
It made me misty-eyed and brought me back to the 1980’s. The TV show Alice featured outlandish characters who worked at Mel’s Diner including the twangy southerner, Flo who chewed gum and said, “Kiss my grits.” Mel, the white T-shirt-wearing chauvinistic fry cook barked orders and kept the ladies in line. I choked up a bit reminiscing about shows like Alice and One Day at a Time and Happy Days. Where men like Mel and Schnider and Arthur Fonzarelli rolled up their sleeves, smoked, and didn’t apologize for looking cool in a regular guy’s white T-shirt. I gripped the bottle and poured out a little sanitizer in homage to the rugged toughness of the '80s when Elana shoved a candle under my nose.
“Mom, smell.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Bourbon?” I guessed. It smelled like my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs Grawleski. She wore high heels and a tight bun like a ballerina. I idolized that flask-tipping woman.
“Does this come in a body spray?” I asked and my daughter obliged. I considered the twelve-ounce bottle of bourbon-scented amber liquid. Bourbon says I’m sophisticated. The kind of woman who discusses best sellers in a folding chair circle and drinks things on the rocks. I smiled, gave my neck a squirt and tossed the body spray in my shopping basket.
I wonder whatever happened to Mrs. Grawleski.
“Really, mom?” Elana questioned my choice, waving her hand to clear the air.
I dropped my shoulders and sighed. “You’re right,” I backtracked a few steps and grabbed the last discounted bottle of White T-shirt. If Bourbon said high society, a spritz of White T-shirt would tone it down a notch.
A slight headache formed behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose, finally overwhelmed by all the smells. “Let’s go,” I said taking one last look at the wall of fragrances.
I approached the checkout flanked by my daughters.
“Wow,” the cotton candy-scented cashier remarked on my full basket. She reminded me of childhood trips to the county fair. "I see you've found everything you needed. Would you like to open a Bath & Body Works line of credit today?" She asked with a smile. Her cheeks glowed with the dewy shimmer of Summer and simpler times.
I indulged my senses and agreed to open a new account, intoxicated by the aromas of yesteryear.
I may have had those ad executives pegged all wrong, they knew exactly what they were doing.
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