Kindness & Consideration

It sometimes worries me how quickly I can be taken in. Per usual, I will blame my mother, the woman who taught all of her children that Kindness & Consideration should be the first thought when dealing with our fellow man. My problem being that I took that to also mean Hurt No One’s Feelings and often get suckered as a result of my inability to say, “No. No, thank you.”

I had wandered into Saks the other day in search of a perfume that I had sniffed on a friend. Since burrowing my face deeply into her neck and inhaling all evening might have resulted in a restraining order and the end of our friendship, I politely asked her for the name instead. See? Kindness & Consideration! They always come into play.

Anyhoo, I was strolling through the perfume section and was suddenly assaulted by a cute, small, gay man wearing a fedora. It should be mentioned that I am helpless in the hands of cute, small, gay men. Putty. I want to put them into my large purse and carry them around all day so that they can tell me how pretty my hair is and how GIRL! your shoes are FIERCE! And then we could shop together and talk about how Vicki’s face is melting on the Real Housewives of Orange County. Simple pleasures, really.

So the cute, small, gay man, who we shall call Daniel, was sparkly and fun and jumped out from behind the counter, scaring the SHIT out of me and cried “HONEY! Where did you get that COAT?!” And, of course, in spite of the coronary I was enduring because of his enthusiasm, I told him about the coat, which was quite amazing. As were my shoes, which were next on his list of compliments. I am susceptible to flattery, it is true.

Daniel started to walk with me as I continued my meandering, whispering about the last woman he had helped who had the most wretched, pathetic, fake Louis Vuitton purse he had ever laid his blue contacts on. He was still reeling from the experience. I resisted the impulse to ask if he needed a damp rag to place across his eyes and a moment to lie down. Finally, realizing that I was, in fact, shopping, he asked, “Honey, can I help you find something?”

I told him about the perfume that I was looking for and he exclaimed, “OH SWEETHEART. You do NOT want to wear THAT. That is for OLD people,” knitting his perfectly waxed brows together. And there is nothing quite as humbling as being told by the cute, gay man, that you are somehow tragically off course in your beauty choices. Alarmed, worried that he might kick me out of Saks for having made such a catastrophic error, I tried to back pedal “Really? I had no idea!” I said, miming surprise. “Is there something else you might suggest?”

“I HAVE JUST THE THING!” he said, pulling my sleeve and leading me over to a display of perfume. “This JUST came in and it is HEAVEN. You MUST smell it!” And before I knew what was happening, he was spritzing me. Caught in a cloud of smell, I coughed as he went into his sales pitch, caressing the perfume bottle in a way I can only describe as faintly erotic. He put so much into the spiel, having obviously practiced what he was saying that I imagined him standing in front of his mirror the night prior, assessing what facial expressions would be most persuasive.

“Daniel,” I said, having pulled myself away from the brink of asphyxiation, “Do you work on commission? I’m only asking because I’ve never heard such a passionate dissertation about perfume.”

“HONEY! HOW DID YOU KNOW? Actually, we only get extra if we sell this stuff. Don’t you LOVE it?” Honestly, I didn’t know as my eyes and nose were burning due to his liberal ministrations. But it didn’t smell BAD. And he was so eager, and so cute. And his fedora had jewel things on it. And he had loved my coat. And I wanted to be Kind. And Considerate. So I said “I’ll take a bottle!” choking, somewhat, as he told me the price. But it was a designer I knew and admired, so really, I was getting something marvelous, and the bottle, having been all but French kissed by Daniel as he was expressing his love of the perfume, was quite pretty. Good things.

I walked out, happy.

What I didn’t take into account was that my body, having a complex and strange chemistry, tends to do things to perfume. Bad things. Within 15 minutes the scent started to resemble something between the grave and a unbathed whore with an undertone of feet. It was dreadful, and I was lacquered in it. And had an expensive bottle of the stuff in my bag with which to further assail my poor nose. I thought, “Well, this will never do,” and wondered if I could return it since the box was, as of yet, unopened.

But then I thought of Daniel and his delight over making his commission, having sold some of the vile stuff. And I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. His fedora would wilt, and I just couldn’t have that on my conscience. It wouldn’t be Kind or Considerate.

So the bottle went to a friend whose chemistry agreed with the perfume’s fabulousness and I’m still without the scent I had gone in there for in the first place. And I’m going to buy it. I don’t care if I DO end up smelling like a granny – I’ll go against the gays on this one. At least I won’t stink of prostitution. I should send my mother the bill.