When summer turns to fall, I wait as long as I can to turn on the furnace. Usually the afternoons will warm up enough that I can wear a sweater in the morning and be fine. But finally the time comes when I dig out the fleece-lined slippers, pad my way to the thermostat, and hold my breath as my ancient furnace kicks in. Within a few minutes the living room fills with warm air and the smell of the first heater run of the year: dust and hot metal. Add a slice of toast with jam, imagine yourself in an ancient church, and presto! you have Balenciaga Rumba perfume.
Rumba is big and deep, and is a strange but compelling combination of a hot electric burner, fruit, and beeswax. Even as an Eau de Toilette, Rumba has maximum sillage. I’m tempted to say that it’s juicy, but its fruit — and there’s lots of it — quickly turns to something richer, like Madeira. Rumba’s flowers appear then disappear then gently reappear amidst the churchy wood, as if they’re blowing in from a night garden. I’ve read reviews of Rumba that compare it to a nightclub, and I imagine a Cuban bar with an outdoor seating area and a palm reader in the corner ready to tell you your fate while you sip your second El Floridita…
When I was 11, I shared a bedroom with my sister in a singlewide trailer in the country. On the wall above my bed I’d tacked up a poster I thought was truly beautiful: three fluffy, gray kittens sitting in a purple basket. By the time I was in high school, the kittens seemed cheap and precious. I was ready to move on to beauty that was a little less predictable, even if just to a Renoir poster of a girl with a kitten. Perfume is like that, too.
As I wrap up the week of scents for the twelve categories I so confidently described on Monday, I’m left with a lot of bottles in my cabinet and a lot of situations that call out for a particular perfume. Clearly, I’m full of baloney. Twelve is not enough. So let’s get on with it:
I feel like I should be wearing a Jean Harlow dress, leaning back on a chaise longue, and dangling a maribou-trimmed mule from one foot. “And now,” I’d say, “Let me tell you about how to seduce a man through scent.” Unfortunately, I’m no Jean Harlow. Or even Olive Oyl, for that matter. But I’ll give this topic a stab and count on you to help me out. 
Choosing perfume to wear to work isn’t getting any easier. At my last office job, management sent regular emails warning staff to be sensitive about wearing perfume. Last I heard, they had to bring in a mediator for a woman in one department who couldn’t tolerate the perfumed body lotion of a woman in another department.