Any time I smell patchouli, my mom is with me again. I keep some next to me when I paint so we can

[Warpy]

7. I never wore it during my hippie days

but I also keep a bottle of it around to remember the scent of my misspent youth.

I don't keep anything my mother wore. She was a heavy smoker whose sense of smell was blunted and who tended to overuse. Her favorites still make me a bit queasy.

Still, it's not as bad as getting onto a hospital elevator on a hot, muggy day in early July. All the newly minted interns were there, all wearing their graduation after shave and cologne, the clashing combination with a distinct undertone of eau de bug spray. By the end of July they'd all been puked on, so it didn't last long.

Patchouli is different, it reminds me of a time when I was young and thought all things were possible. I didn't know how improbable they were or that I'd spend a lifetime crushed under the fat arses of corporate conservatism and religious dumbfuckery. Still, it has the smell of freedom to me. Or maybe just the smell of youthful exuberance. It's a good one, either way.