The right scent wafts me away. Perfume is my innocent escape. It's one of the things that defines me as me and not just mom-me.
When I was pregnant, nothing smelled good. Except maybe pickles. On nachos. From 7-Eleven. But now, welcome home, fragrance my friend.
Scents that are earthy and warm appeal to me most, scents like musk and sandalwood, scents that say, "I'm crunchy, but sexy, in an I-shave-my-underarm-hair kind of way."
Gourmand scents can be lovely too, with notes of cinnamon or vanilla. If I wasn't afraid of smelling like a freshly baked pie, I just might sprinkle a little nutmeg behind my ears and go.
The right florals can be nice, although I'm much more picky about those. I don't want to smell like I've been doused in Grandmother's rose water, but I do love the intoxicating scent of Jasmine.
What makes my blood rush though is the ultimate, the complex ambery scent that brings it all to a climax in one enveloping aromatherapy party, the one crafted by an expert perfumer and rare enough that once a man associates it with you, he will think only of you whenever he smells it. That my friends is perfume. Va-va-va-voom.