Someone on Facebook posted an essay about the perverse way we women have of saving the good stuff for a special occasion. It reminded me of an Erma Bombeck quote:
“…I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage. I would have talked less and listened more. I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded. I would have eaten the popcorn in the ‘good’ living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace. …I would have sat on the lawn with my kids, even if it meant grass stains.”
I’m guilty of each one of these transgressions. But this morning, knowing I’d perhaps see no one other than my cat and, at the end of the day, my husband, Studly Doright, I indulged in wearing my favorite perfume—the seriously expensive stuff my daughter-in-law bought for me last Christmas.
Now, I can’t stop smelling my glorious self. It’s seriously hurting my productivity. Still, I smell AMAZING.