Dreams of Letting Go

                                               

As a clinical social worker, my job years ago was to work closely with physicians and nurses to meet both the physical and psychological needs of patients. Then my career started changing. At one point in my rise as a leader, a physician friend asked me, 'are you really going to squander your clinical talent to take that position?'  His words stung at the time and now they return to echo through my life again.  I did set aside my clinical talent to fit the mold of business operations.  At all points, I surrounded myself with people who could fulfill this function and disguise my disinterest in data analytics, tedious improvement processes and continual auditing and tracking of results. Pretending is hard work, and I begged the universe to bring about a change so I could feel alive again.

That change has come in an unexpected way, and letting go is never as easy as it seems.  For the last week, my dreams have revealed this fact through stories that haunt me through the night.  Like the story of finding myself on a business trip across the country before realizing I no longer have a job...wondering how to flee the situation before being seen.  Or sitting down with the CEO so he can explain the company cannot offer a severance package and I need to simply walk away with nothing but gratitude for having worked there in the first place.  In that dream, I eek out one big alligator tear in response.

But it's not just dreams that haunt me.  Even reports from colleagues of having made a positive and lasting difference sting unexpectedly when they are meant only to soothe.  Perhaps that's because there was so little joy in my work during the final years when joy and meaning in my work has always been a priority.  What ended up happening - advancing through the organization and placing my worth on those achievements - robbed me of what I want and need most in life; to make a difference in the world through the authentic passion of my heart.  It's still my dream.

image from google.com

Henry Day

Our Grandson, Henry

Becoming a grandmother (Grammy) has turned my world upside down in the most wonderful way possible.  Henry comes to our home on Sundays and - for now - on Wednesdays, too.  Excited to see him today!  This boy is a charmer extraordinaire and his love of laughing and engaging makes me remember the simple joy of being alive.

Henry likes to play with body sprays (start training him young, right?) and he reaches for them whenever he walks by my perfume cabinet. Now he understands they are for smelling, not eating.

Photo courtesy of Henry's father.

Next Chapter: Staring Into My Future

I'm still processing.

Five months ago, the organization in which I've built a 15 year career informed me that due to a major restructure, my role and many others would be 'sunset.'  That's corporate speak for shitcanned. After helping with the transition and finding no other fit, May 1st marks the beginning of a self-imposed one year sabbatical from work.     

I have no idea what to do with myself.

Last Friday, determined to be useful, I come home with new comforters for the beds because it seems like the right thing to do.  On Saturday, I return them, but not without visiting Burlington to cruise perfumes.  Then I go to the Rite-Aid by our home...yet again...which is in the process of going out of business.  Perfume discounts are 50%, but the lonesome check-out lady says everything will be discounted 90% the last two days before closing.  That isn't for another week so I keep stalking their cheap perfumes just in case they pull a fast one and start the 90% off without telling me.  

Yesterday, my raison d'etre is to find a body lotion that smells mild and won't clash with the cheap perfumes I buy at Rite Aid.  So I wander around Target with other people who wander around Target mid-day on Monday only to feel annoyed with both the people and their scintillating phone conversations:

'What am I doing?'

'I'm just in Target doing a little shopping.'

'What are you doing? Uh-huh. Uh-huh.'

'I really shouldn't be much longer - can I call you then?'

'Okay...what?  I didn't hear you...what?'

You're killing me.

When I first learn my job is ending, I try coping mechanisms that helped in the past: solitary time in the morning burning candles, writing in my journal and then brief meditation. One month in, my journal has become the Book of Misery and I start talking back to the guided meditation. 'YOU focus on your breath.'  It clearly isn't working. 

Perfume is the only thing that always works.

Nothing else enters my brain when I'm playing with perfume.  It is the rest that I hope to get from meditation...focus without effort, beauty through aroma and a shift in mood. Since December, I have added 20-30 perfumes to my collection.  Inner Farm Girl isn't happy, but most are mainstream and relatively inexpensive so she hasn't snapped just yet. If she does, I will blame YouTube...Shana J, Ami Loves Perfume, BeautyNotes, Tiff Benson and others. They have amped up my love affair with perfume, made me laugh and helped my anxiety come down so I could sleep at night.  They don't know it, but they saved me.

This blog began as a tribute to my mother and a celebration of perfume.  Now I am back to share my journey as a displaced baby boomer contemplating life's next step with the help of a little sillage.

Image from lovethispic.com  

Jimmy Choo: I Can't Fight It Anymore

Every time I take a 'what's your signature scent' quiz online, it points to Jimmy Choo eau de parfum. This started to annoy me because it's not that I hadn't ever tried Jimmy Choo, it's that I didn't get the appeal.  At first, it seemed like just another fruitchouli, all mainstream and ordinary.  

Yawn.

The thing is, I couldn't get it out of my mind and thoughts of Jimmy Choo stalked me relentlessly until one day earlier this summer when I visited a nearby Ulta to decide - once and for all - if Jimmy Choo was for me.  Every Ulta in the valley recognizes me because I can't seem to pass one without going in.  'Oh hi - we haven't seen you for a while.'  Or, 'Oh, hi - you're back again so soon.' Introverts never want to be called out this way.  You may greet me casually but don't comment on the frequency of my visits or ask if I need help. Just go about your business and never let on that you know I'm the crazy perfume lady that sprays paper strips and leaves them sitting by the appropriate perfume while wandering back and forth to smell each one at various stages of drydown.  Just look away.

What's worse is I never actually buy perfume at Ulta, but instead turn to discount outlets online.  Inner Farm Girl is nodding her approval.  However, I do buy make-up, hair stuff and nondescript clearance items that I neither want or need, which end up in our hall closet on the shelf above the towels and underneath the toilet paper.  Inner Farm Girl just shot me a dirty look.  Point is, I buy enough stuff at Ulta that I felt comfortable that day as I sprayed Jimmy Choo liberally on both arms before walking out of the store with no purchase at all. My car was parked a short jaunt away and I braced myself for what I was sure would be sillage to match Paige's dog farts (thick, oily and cloying) once inside the car. Whatever happened, this issue would be resolved.  The stalking had to end.

First thing that hit me was the mint...like barely chewed Wrigley's spearmint gum. Then the toffee, smooth and deep and then, finally, the patchouli.  Spoiler alert: it's not a bomb at all.  In fact, I wish it had a little more blast to it, if you want to know the truth. Something about it reminded me of the smell of, well...me after a long walk in the cool, early morning air.  That, or I am in complete denial about the allure of my body odor and morning breath. Jimmy Choo feels familiar.

No one can smell it on me which, as a compliment whore, is a crushing blow.  B-man did smell it once after I doused myself with it and sat right next to him on the deck. 'Mmm, what smells good, did you just put something on?' Part of me wanted to say, 'Ya think? I've been wearing this every frigging day for weeks.'   But I was so giddy with excitement that he noticed, I couldn't help batting my eyes, leaning toward him and saying, 'Really?  Do you like it? Really?'

Jimmy Choo owns me.  My first bottle is nearly gone, and I still can't leave it alone.  

Picture from Fragrantica

Wallflowers: Scented Anxiety

Bath and Body Works is having its semi-annual sale again.  These events make me crazy because 1) I can't stay away even though I swear I will, and 2) I end up buying stuff that I don't want, making at least one return trip necessary.  So far, I have visited four stores.  You have to shop around because they all have their own cool stuff.  Everybody knows that.

This year, just to shake things up, I have ventured into a new area: wallflowers.  Until now, they seemed too scary to assemble, but I figure what the hell, I'm a big girl - I can handle this.  The scent holders themselves are puzzling...I can't imagine under what circumstance I would want a 5-inch anchor jutting out of my wall, or a seashell.  Or a turtle.  And what scents are best?  By my count, there's five thousand and forty options.  Baffled, I stare at them for a long time and wonder how I want our rooms to smell.  Like fruit?  Flowers? Cinnamon rolls? They have 'em all.

After sniffing the matching candles, I settle on three scents: Vanilla Beach Flower, Georgia Peach and Frosted Cupcake.  When I get home, just for fun, I read the reviews of these room scents and promptly decide that they all suck.  By relying only on my stellar instincts alone, I have chosen three of the lowest rated scents on the website. 

According to reviews of long time wallflower warriors, Heirloom Pumpkin is a stunning scent with 'throw' and longevity.  B-man likes the smell of pumpkin, which emboldens my decision making. Certain I have avoided a what stinks debacle, I trade the three losers in for three of the pumpkin saviors and hurry home to plug in my very own wallflower, waiting to swoon in delight.  

I hate Heirloom effing Pumpkin.

More smells might be tested, but the process already has me stressed out and gearing up for an Oscar worthy anxiety attack. There's a reason I stayed away from wallflowers all these years.

photo from musingsofamuse.com

Ode to the Flu...My Week in Review

Stale breath

Unwashed hair

Stinky armpits

Chicken soup

Sweaty sheets

Vaporub

Gin

Picture from flikr.com

Perfume That Made Me Eat Crow: Heiress by Paris Hilton

Paris Hilton's Heiress has popped up several times on this blog.  I thought if I mentioned it in passing, like 'I wear it, but only at night,' or 'I bought the body spray because I was bored and it was there,' no one would judge me or confiscate my ID card to the Perfumista Club.  Probation is a constant threat, but I still use words like 'flanker' and 'sillage.'  That's got to count for something.

To demonstrate my loyalty to said club, I scoffed at Paris Hilton perfumes for years so that everyone would know I had higher standards than they did and was therefore superior.  And I scoffed out loud, not in my head like usual.  I'm talking audible pshhh-ing plus an eye roll with my nose in the air. Chortling may have been involved.

Then came Heiress, which produced an almost obscene OMG moment.  Maybe it was the skittles-wrapped-in-dryer-sheets vibe or maybe the feeling that I was walking past a lilac tree while peeling an orange and chewing bubble gum.  Either way, Heiress is a girl crush in a bottle. 

Bad news is the journey from scoffing to swooning requires eating a few helpings of crow, which sucks because I almost had the chortling thing down.  And crow tastes nasty.  But I must be getting used to it because I just bought two more Paris Hilton perfumes unsniffed: Passport Tokyo and Passport Paris. The most embarrassing part, other than standing in the checkout line forever so everyone knows I'm buying Paris Hilton perfumes? I actually like them.

What the hell...I faked the ID, anyway.

Picture from fragrances.com