Fragrance Diplomacy

I love a man who wears his cologne effortlessly.  Not the I-Sprayed-a-Whole-bottle-of-Men's-Obsession-All-Over-Me, and the elevator at the end of the day still reeks as it did that morning, when you lost the delicious scent of your latte to warpath pheromones attacking your sinuses.

I love the quiet scent.  Watching the hilarious Old Spice ads and You Tube videos, http://www.youtube.com/oldspice brings back old family stories:  My Mom loved the fragrance so much and it smelled so good on her she wore it when she and my Dad were courting.  He gave her a bottle as a gift, and then she gave one to him, he still has it in his cabinet--truly an antique.  It was another of their bonds, still unbroken after 70 years together.

I will always love the smell of Brut http://www.brutworld.com/-it's why I fell in love with journalism--or, in the interest of full disclosure, a journalist.  Mr. Robin Nelson, brown cordoroy jacket with patches on the elbows and that baby blue Oxford shirt and khakis with loafers.  I was 14 and on a  family vacation: a Princess cruise to Canada and Alaska, Robin had just turned 18 and was traveling with his Aunt and Sis.  He had just finished his first year at Indiana's Ball State University, and was flush with the possibilities he would write for the Washington Post one day.  This was 1970, post Kent State but pre-Watergate, and Robin was sure he would do his part to save the world.  And he was always prepared too, with a Reporters Notebook and pens at the ready in his pockets.

My Dad had just given me my late Uncle Morrie's Argus C3 camera, even then, it was older than dirt, but after that first click of the shutter,  I knew I would be the photographic equivalent to Robin's crusading hell-raiser.  We sat in the lounge of the Princess Italia as it steamed away from the various ports, Robin reading passages from Upton Sinclair's  social action classic, The Jungle.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Upton_Sinclair . I was hooked. On crusading stories, on saving the world, on Robin, and on Brut.  The last night of the cruise, we stayed up in the lobby, laying on the couch, watching the waves and talking about what stories we would do, the impact we would have.  I fell asleep on his chest, the gentle smell of Brut lodged forever in my senses.

I wear Tsar http://www.vancleef-arpels.com/en/van-cleef.html?zone=eu#/parfums/  the fragrance I've worn for a couple decades now.  I love how it wears off, and I get compliments all the time from both men and women.  But there's more of a historical reason:  allegedly, my great grand-uncle was Russian-Soviet apparatchik Yakov Sverdlov, the guy who gave the order to murder the last Tsar, Nicholas II and his family.  Call it my apology to the Royal family,  a tip of my fragrance hat or simply a sick sense of humor, either way, I know I smell good.

My Dad must feel the same:  ever since he operated on Liz Taylor - he was her Proctologist- Mom has been buying him Liz's White Diamonds Cologne.

Which brings me to the title of this post: Fragrance Diplomacy: after all, one of the cardinal rules is the importance of face to face encounters.  So, our pheromones are the essence of our attractiveness in its most primal form.  It's our First Responder on high alert and we don't even have to think about it.  Smelling good:  It can be a lovely way to close those last three feet.  Given the incredible popularity of the Old Spice Guy, this seems like a no brainer.

And Robin, thanks for inspiring my career track.  Forever, each time I smell Brut, I remember that night, and how I hope you followed your dreams.  Thanks in part to you, I have.

Casualties of Empowerment: Part I

So I've been back in LA now for around a week and a half, and this phrase--Casualties of Empowerment-- has been bouncing around in my psyche since before I left. 

This trip to Israel was magical in more ways than I could ever describe with mere words.  The hot tears finally melting my hardened heart and quenching the thirst of my parched spirit were absorbed by the gorgeous sand beaches of Tel Aviv, and so many other, incredible places and experiences.

I don't recognize myself in the mirror just yet, and I haven't since around the second week.  My facebook photograph, taken on my birthday at this great nightclub in Tel Aviv, with me somewhere in between my first and second vodka shows someone I know is me, but someone so incredibly happy, so at home and fully filling out her skin--with a stunning tan---that I have to look twice sometimes to make sure it's my profile page. It's not a Yael I am used to, at least not in LA.  It's the Yael that now thinks of herself as Israeli, not American Jew.  I've been searching for home my entire life, and now that I've found home, home now inhabits ME, fully, and, even though I am back in LA.

I guess the reason this phrase in this context keeps coming to mind is that without becoming empowered, I would not have made this journey, and this journey had casualties left in its wake. One casualty is who I thought I was. 

I was way too caught up--indeed caught, trapped by my own self-image--in being who I thought I needed to be: The Martyr, and what a wake up call it is to realize that even though you can get your ya-ya's met by sacrificing yourself, there is no way you can be truly fulfilled, or happy hanging on that cross (yeah, well, religious imagery is the theme of the locale).  But more than that, you cannot reach your true potential as a human being, and do what God or the Fates have planned for you.  You are not fully living, you are just existing, because in order to be fully alive, you have to be walking your Path.

My personal definition of empowerment is the steadfast courage to risk everything on every level to fully live your beliefs, especially the belief of who you are meant to be,  to relentlessly pursue your Path to make a difference for good in this life, and the full acceptance of the responsibility and consequences of taking that Path.  In my mind, it's the sacred Oath to Self, and I am humbly grateful to finally swear to it.   Thanks, Illana.