Not long ago a friend of mine mentioned that I have a "pleasant smell", which was very nice of him, however, I never realized that he'd ever been close enough to me to pick up a scent. I immediately had images of him as a surreptitious sniffer leaning over and inhaling deeply while I'm momentarily distracted. After the initial shock, I realized that this probably wasn't the case and even if it was, it wouldn't bother me in the slightest.
I decided to share the story with my sister because she thinks much the way I do and I thought she'd be amused by the tale of the surreptitious sniffer... but, the hilarity of my ridiculous imaginings was completely lost on her. She was too busy heartily agreeing with the sniffer. According to her: Yes. I do have a pleasant smell. Not only that but, it is a very distinct smell that is quite noticeable. She insisted that she could walk into a room filled with clothing and be able to pick out the pieces that were mine.
At this point the original surreptitious sniffer was swiftlyswept from my mind by an image of my sister stealing shirts from my closet and burying her nose in them. This, I must admit, was even more unnerving... and it got worse. Almost as soon as the original had been replaced by my sister in my wild imaginings, a new image flooded my brain. In this picture both the surreptitious sniffer and my sister were present. They were having coffee. However, the coffee was being completely forgotten in the wake of their intent conversation about my smell.
Eventually I returned to reality and when I did I began to wonder about the science of scent. I'd seen a television show on the Discovery Channel, PBS, or the like about a study that was done where women were asked to sniff t-shirts that men had worn to sleep for a week. The outcome was that women seemed to prefer the scent of men who had immune systems that were the opposite of their own. I assume that this is nature's way of making sure there is always one parent that is healthy enough to take care of the offspring. The women found the scents of men who had the same sort of immune systems to be more like the scent of their brothers or fathers. I wonder if my sister, perhaps, finds my scent more noticeable than that of others due to a combination of familiarity and the fact that I have a different father than she. Does the immune system theory work conversely with men prefering the scent of women who will stay healthy when they are sick? Whose smell do I prefer? Do I more readily notice the smell of some people? Do I dislike the smell of people I dislike?
In any case, I am newly interested in the science of scent and am devouring information about pheromones and what not. Very interesting stuff. You'll probably hear more later.
And don't be alarmed if you notice that I've become a surreptitious sniffer.
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3 comments:
You know what another interesting thing to wonder about smell is: how fast does smell travel? For instance, someone nearby lights a cigarette. How long does it take the smell to travel those four or five feet to your nose?
So here I go with another comment. The first comment I made was really more of a courtesy. You comment on my blog, I comment on yours. You know how it is. I realize now that my previous comment was completely vacuous, though I admit the speed of smell fascinates me. It was really the only thing I could think of at that moment that generally fit with the subject of your post. Really, I have no thoughts about odors, except that the whole topic smells a little funny to me.
Awful. Sorry.
Smell can't have a set speed. Unlike light and sound, which both travel in waves, scent is a parasite on the back of air currents. It is completely dependant upon the enviroment around it and is governed by the chaos of nature. If a butterfly flaps its wings, etc., etc... (chaos theory) The thought of the speed of smell does, however, put something of a short film in my head. I see a scent floating along, getting trapped in someones clothes then being released to continue its journey elsewhere, possibly quite some distance from its origination, until it finally dissipates. Sort of like the feather that floats through the credits of Forrest Gump.
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