That day in 1995 is as clear as if it was yesterday. I tore through the plastic cover and unwrapped the pink cardboard packaging to unveil a smooth, flat, circle shaped glass bottle. My first perfume. Oh my God! The day had finally come. My first perfume! Am I a woman now? Surely, I must be a woman!? All woman! (At the age of 8, I was (most definitely) NOT a woman).
And yet it felt like a milestone. To be allowed the option of being bathed in a strong yet subtle floral, woody, classy scent. It felt like a privilege… A step onto the pedestal of womanhood. And I was all for it. For growing up, for feeling the maturity of it. For bearing the pretend burden of seriousness and responsibility on my old shoulders. For living, in a moment, in those mature, classy, feminine circumstances that I craved beyond all. What pure divinity. If this wasn’t what I lived for, then what was?
How eager we are to let go of the innocence and naturality of youth. How keen we are to accept the mindset, judgement and preconceptions of a (young) adult. And yet, when we get there, all we crave is youth and simplicity.
Such is the paradox that is life.
Like what you’ve read here? Follow me on Twitter for shorter (and randomer thoughts) – @berryliciously