I’ve always liked the smell of patchouli. I know, how very stereotypical of me, the guy who counts the Beatles and Grateful Dead as a couple of his desert-island bands.
I don’t know if my affection for the scent came before, or because of, my early teenage revelation that I was a 60s hippie born into the wrong era in some cosmic accident. I’d wager I maybe grew fond of it after smelling it, along with Nag Champa, which I’m also a big fan of, in the various headshops we used to frequent in those same years.
Regardless, I really like the scent, and the way it smells on me, even though I’ve never been a big fan of wearing smells as they tend to bother me. I guess patchouli is an exception.
Problem is, no one else likes it. Like, no one – including Sharaun. I mean, I know somebody likes it, or else it wouldn’t sell, but I guess it’s a small bunch of like-nosed folk. This is why I’ve never personally used it, even though anytime I smell it on someone I remember how much I like it.
But look y’all, this trip is about doing more of what I want to do, being me without caring. So then, despite Sharaun’s rolling eyes, I grabbed a little bottle at Whole Foods when we were last picking up a Prime order from an Amazon locker.
And, friends, I love it. I smell like patchouli and woodsmoke all the time these days. I know, disgusting, but, for me, lovely. If I’m not the picture of a dude who lives on the road, I don’t know who is. Reintegrating may be a challenge.