You know, it’s interesting. In light of my last post, I realized today that I religiously wear a fragrance that is by no means chemical free. It is not “all natural.” It’s not homemade. It’s certainly not certified organic. Dior Hypnotic Poison. Even the name of it sends shivers down my spine. I discovered this scent while living in Italy. My flatmate took me shopping, being the beauty and cosmetic genius that she is, and helped me choose a fragrance that I adore. I must have sniffed a billion fancy little glass bottles, with espresso beans in between to “cleanse the palette,” before falling in love with Hypnotic Poison.
I identify intensely with scent. An aroma can immediately transport me to another time. Certain scents remind me of my mom, immediately and profoundly, and I usually have to call her right away because I’m so moved by the experience. Some beings react this way to taste, some to sounds, some to the touch of certain fabrics, surfaces, what-have-you.
In light of this morning’s post, I simply find it intriguing that I’ve chosen to obsess over the purity of things in the very recent months, and yet I’m spritzing on this fine perfume most days completely ignoring the health hazards. And you know what?
I don’t care.
I love my perfume. It brings me back to my time living in Florence, to a carefree time brimming with passion, heady romance, and the discovery of a deeply sensual connection to myself. The fragrance smells a certain way on me, mixing with my own body chemistry, producing an aroma that I receive compliments on everyday. Even if no one ever complimented my scent, I’d keep wearing it. It’s the single frivolous, overpriced “beauty” purchase that I succumb to, and I’ll continue to succumb willingly. It makes me happy.
That being said, I feel like a dingbat and a half for freaking out over taking a half of an ibuprofen a couple times a day until the pain from my injury subsides.
Chill out girlfriend.
My lifestyle is one of health and wellness, to the max. I am, however, not guaranteed longevity due to my ways of utmost wellness. I don’t mean this morbidly, it’s simply realistic. I don’t live the way I do simply for longevity, I live this way because it makes me happy (are you noticing a theme?). I make everything that I can on my own because it makes me happy. I recycle, conserve and care for the planet because it makes me happy. I eat a healthy, superfood rich, vegetarian, plant-based diet because it makes me happy. I walk and bike and practice yoga because – you guessed it – it makes me HAPPY!!!
So, the moral of my little OCD-driven, sadly “first world problem” story this week is this:
Cut the stress. Enough with it! Stress doesn’t make me happy! All of those things up there ^^^ THEY make me happy. This life I lead, defined by my own terms, makes me happy. Worrying over silly sh*t…no, that does not make me happy. So, just as I would switch the radio from the drone of a babbling ignoramus to something that makes sense, I change the frequency of my mind.
I love mantras, and the mantra of this new brain station is this:
I live my life, according to my own terms, because it makes me happy.