Or so I’ve been told.
When I was in high school I had this friend (no, really) who dumped his girlfriend after three or four months. Later on that year everyone found out that she was dating a GIRL. We laughed and teased our friend mercilessly about how he’d ruined her and failed to satisfy her and whatnot, but he never acted particularly bothered or embarrassed.
His simple explanation: “She knew she was never going to get a better man than me, so she switched preferences entirely.”
Despite the fact that he was an arrogant SOB (and ignoring the likelihood that he never actually believed what he was telling us) I always admired his confident rationalization. He was able to take the awkward reality of a situation and distort its perception just enough to cast flattery and favor upon himself.
Last week I purchased a bottle of Hanae Mori EDP and last night (St. Patty’s day) I was able to give it an official trial run. Now I don’t believe in putting on a “lucky shirt” to go out at night, or wearing rapstar-sized jewlery to bait women (probably because I can’t afford any – the jewlery not the women), but in hypnotic fragrances with mystical powers to allure, I have found my faith. All evening, it seemed like I was in one of those Saturday morning cartoons where the smell of food from a kitchen had the ability to lift characters off the ground and float them through the air by their noses.
Between the several bars/clubs/dens of debauchery we visited, I had five different women comment on my cologne (all positive). I got two phone numbers, a pinch on the cheek, and a goodnight kiss. I can assure you that these are not the ordinary occurances of an evening out for this semi-shy, neophyte shaving geek.
This morning, however, as I incubate in the intensive care-unit of a hard-won hangover, the reality cracks are beginning to spider. I could easily assume that my successful evening was based, not on a close shave, a remarkable cologne, or my rugged good-looks (ha!), but on something far less… flattering.
First of all, it was Saint Patrick’s Day (amateur night, as those in the keep of salty livers and peppery limericks, occasionaly call it), so all the women I met were juiced up on green beer and Celtic song. Second, whatever compliments they extended about how nice I smelled, should probably be weighed against the unfortunate fact that they were also wearing a portion of their own drinks. Third, it seems doubtful that even those who were unencumbered by cigarettes could accurately detect and appreciate my scent in a room with a stale blanket of smoke on its ceiling. Forth, when women suggest that they were pulled in by the tractor beam of my aroma, I have to wonder if that’s not a strong indicator that I’m applying too much cologne. Finally, (and this line of reasoning cannot be discounted too easily), it was payday and I was buying large quanties of alcohol from a well stuffed wallet for any female wearing the color… you guessed it, green.
Perhaps in the end, it’s just as easy to say that the scientific nature of my testing and the state of mind in which I write this post, should probably be seen as highly questionable. But like my friend did so many years ago, I am choosing to ignore the inconvenient questions whose answers objectivity might seek to cheapen or insult. As Alduous Huxley once wrote, “An unexciting truth may be eclipsed by a thrilling lie.” And even if that lie is to myself, and its guilty manifestations are being suffered by you the reader, I’m happy to believe that my success was based entirely on the campaign of Hanae Mori.
Now I’m going to step into the bathroom and shave the fuzz off my teeth.