‘œNothing is more memorable than a smell’¦ Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once.’ ‘“ Diane Ackerman

Scent of MoneyOur sense of smell can evoke both emotion and memories. For me personally, some scents were potent and typically had seasons attached to them. Autumn was about smoldering fires, hay bales, and the crisp October air which in turn segued to the holidays with the whiff of freshly cut Christmas trees and baked goods. All the wonder then led to the dull scent of winter’¦ yes, even gray has a smell. That’s why I live in California now.

Lovers smell too. Did you ever notice that every woman has a distinct scent? Partner #1 smelled slightly sweaty, Partner #2 smelled like perfume. One short lived escapade in between always smelled like lip gloss. Or did I taste lip gloss? Taste and smell easily overlap. Carry on. Let your imagination run with that one because the Sleeping With Money story below is innocent and restrained and not about sleeping with anyone.

But it is about sleeping, the scent of money and a smell that conjures up a specific memory that represents the divide between my family and those with means. I was fourteen and my best friend at the time, Julia, was four years older. I know’¦ weird as it sounds now, it wasn’t then’¦ she was a church friend so grade didn’t have the cliquish barrier you’d find in high school. Youth group was packed with freshmen through seniors and Julia was the big kid who liked me. I liked and loved her.

I was crazy, obsessed, and looking back it was bona fide puppy love wrapped innocently in adolescent devotion. Years later, after she fooled around with another woman as a married mommy, I realized my feelings probably weren’t that one sided. The last time we spoke, she secretly confessed to wanting to kiss me during our ‘œbest friend’ phase. I was in my late twenties and out of the closet at this point. Nothing ever happened at fourteen or twenty nine. But I’m sure I played out all the fantasies in my head at both ages.

The fourteen year old version likely consisted of kissing and innocent fondling in bed. It was always in her bed. Julia invited me over for sleepovers (lots of sleepovers, just the two of us) and the thing I remember most is how her bedding smelled. It smelled rich.

Julia’s family was rich. At least rich by comparison to my family. I’m not sure what the smell was. Maybe expensive fabric softener. Maybe the soft plumage of waterfowl inside her comforter. Or the fluffy filament that made up her pillows. I just knew that it was the smell of rich people.

She never spent the night at my house. Maybe I never asked. I don’t really remember why. I wanted to be invited into her world. I didn’t want to bring her to mine. I wanted to escape. I wanted some of the scent that Julia and her bed represented.

What’s your scent of money?