It’s Me, That Woman In The Perfume Ad
And I’ll Do Anything For Love When I’m Wearing Insanity, That New Fragrance For Her
My eyelids are closed as I emerge from an underground pool. Why? Is it love? Ecstasy? Chlorine? Ten other women surround me. They are dressed exactly like me in shimmering gold. They follow me as I climb the stairs from the pool, which smells of mildew and warm, pachouli-scented body sweat. I am in love, but on my way to the women’s locker room.
That’s me, running down a jetty, barefoot, my eyelids closed against the blinding afternoon sun so I cannot see the end of the pier. I fling myself 100 feet into the sparkling turquoise depths of the water below wearing a blue, Dior haute couture strapless tulle ballgown. Can I, a DoorDash driver, afford Dior? Is the smell of rotting shellfish compelling me? Is this how crazy I am when I’m in love?
That is me, too, running through a meadow of tall grass and wildflowers. I am mindless of the snakes, spiders, Johnny Depp and a bison because, again, my eyelids are heavy against the pollen, to which I am allergic. I am with you, and two young, perfect flaxen-haired children, a boy and a girl, who are not mine. Are they yours? I am crazy in love. But not with them or the fetid smell of the meadow which turns out to be a swamp.
My eyes are closed because they are blinded by salt spray, as I drive a flashy pink convertible on a deserted beach, blowing through a fence protecting the critically endangered Least tern nesting site, writing out the word “Love” in the sand with my tires. I am in LOVE, goddamit, and there’s nothing I won’t do when I’m in love! Except consider the tides which will soon overtake my car which is stuck in the sand.
I ride a shimmering stallion through a bustling metropolis; my translucent white dress blowing back to show my naked thighs, as white as a dusting of winter snow, tightening around my horse’s withers, my dark hair blowing back from my face. My horse and I race through stoplights and crowded crosswalks, until we reach our destination, high on a hill at sunset where I scream like a banshee about the smell of exhaust and the stinging smog that is making my eyelids heavy while proclaiming my love for you.
I fall from a Parisian window; the French doors perfectly framing the Tour Eiffel in the background; gauzy curtains ruffling slightly in the soft breeze. I land like a smashed croquembouche in the 7th and part of the 8th arrondissements, below. Hearing the wailing WA-wu-WA-wu of the ambulance, you look up from the King-size bed with the Louis XIV headboard, surprised that I am gone. You mumble something about my eyelids being heavy with love and, therefore, the reason I mistook the window for the bathroom. The sheets smell like day old creme fraiche.
Yes, I am that woman in the perfume ad, wearing a scent that is reminiscent of…what? Everything? Nothing? Burnt coffee? Does it matter? I am crazy in love and I don’t care. My eyelids are heavy and I’ll do anything for love and this perfume.