Fragrance

 

I’ve accepted that perfume commercials aren’t made for me.

There’s always a man -- sleek, angular, possibly carved by an Italian Michelangelo wannabe -- rising out of a pool that seems to be fed directly by moonlight. He walks in slow motion, water cascading off him like he’s auditioning to be Poseidon’s intern.

Then we cut to the high society château party. A woman in a designer gown glides through a crowd of hipster guests. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge the guy offering champagne. She just smolders in slow motion.

I can’t relate. The only thing speaking to me at parties is the buffet table.

And then the brand name … it’s always one floating word, a single, mysterious syllable whispered by a voice that sounds like it’s been trapped in a velvet pouch since the late ’90s. Or possibly just someone clearing their throat in French.

Something like: “Élau” or “Vür.”

No notes about what it smells like. No hint of how much a bottle costs. Not even a suggestion that the scent won’t make me smell like a citrus-forward tire fire.

I guess the assumption is: You already know it smells good.

The ad is just there to assure you that if you spritz this stuff on your wrists, you too can become a mysterious, hydrodynamically perfect being who doesn’t need to speak to anyone at a château party.

But I know better. I’d still be me: moist in all the wrong places, a little lost, and emitting the faint scent of lemon-related insecurity.

 

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Speaking of commercials that bug me, how ‘bout prescription drug ads? The first quarter of the commercial: soft music, golden retriever, someone living their best life. “Ask your doctor if Joyvexxa is right for you.”

Then the rest of the ad is basically a demon reading from the Necronomicon: projectile vomiting, spontaneous orifice bleeding, coma, possible death.

Hard pass, Joyvexxa. I don’t need a medication with a longer threat list than a horror movie.