It happened in a classroom in Tier, where the desks are small and cramped. Where bodies slip into their seats, like folders in a filing cabinet, and body heat warms the room.
These conditions are as-per-usual in any building devoted to studying arts. Most of the other faculties have opted for upgraded facilities. Perhaps the arts are nostalgic — quite likely.
Two bodies, a young man and an older woman, collapsed into the empty seats next to me, almost simultaneously. His winter jacket deflated as he leaned back into the undersized seat, while she removed her damp mittens and wool hat, and her sweaty bangs stuck to her forehead.
I took in these small details nonchalantly. With less than five hours of sleep, I barely registered any of the sense data that entered my body. But then . . . sniff, sniff . . . then I smelt it. It was the smell of cigarette smoke.
Not the freshly lit smell, but that stale smell that clings to your clothes after years of smoking in the same jacket. I became flustered, was jolted out of my sleepy reverie. Quickly, I buried my face in the novel that our class was discussing that day and breathed in deeply.
For me, nothing beats the smell of an old book. The stale-smoke-smell was completely neutralized. I spent the rest of the class peering over the brim of the novel’s pages with shifty eyes, breathing only that comforting, wonderful smell of my paperback.
But what, I wondered later, is wrong with the smell of cigarette smoke? I find the smell of fireplace smoke delicious. Why do I enjoy one and loathe the other? Almost how the smell of the rain on your clothes isn’t a long way away from the smell of you laundry that has sat in the washer for a couple of days. But one is desirable and the other repulsive.
Upon reflection, I realized that the world of smells, which at first glance seems to be a pretty standard place — everyone hates farts, right? — is full of variety. The smell of vanilla makes my mouth water, but is repulsive to my best friend. You know, I wish she would have told me. I have spent the last eight years hanging out with her, smelling of vanilla extract, and she has been too polite to mention it. An old boyfriend loved the smell of his hockey bag, but if I went within ten feet of the thing, I felt my gag reflex kick in.
There are large areas of overlap.
Things like clean laundry and Bounce dryer sheets and fresh bread. But to love a smell is also very individualistic. John Cusack in High Fidelity puts it best: “I miss her smell [ . . . ]. It’s a mystery of human chemistry and I don’t understand it. Some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.”
This is absolutely true. When you love someone — your boyfriend or your girlfriend, your grandmother or your dad — you can develop a love for their smell. Their very own individual, one-in six-billion smell.
You don’t always know it or realize it. But when you bury your face in their shoulder and breathe in . . . well, you are doing exactly what I did with my book.
Sorry Mr. Young Man, and Mrs. Older Woman. Upon a deeper consideration, my behaviour in class last week was uncalled for. Your smell definitely appeals to someone.
Just not to me.