In deep, dark recesses of my bathroom drawers, I find a 30 year old bottle of perfume. It has a French name and a rounded white cap. A beautiful daughter might see a relic but it smells like my mother once smelled. Rosy. And, like I smelled, some 30 years ago, until I decided it was not worth the irritation caused to my allergies.

Just like that. I am one who has a 30 year old bottle of perfume about. I tried a squirt or two. Just for fun.

Suddenly, several items with multiple decades to their credit materialize:
• Books, of course.
• Stuffed elephants.
• Milk crates with the warning label: Theft of this case is a crime.
• Several pairs of glasses.
• Tiny dollhouse cutlery.
• Oven mitts.
• A couple of bracelets.
• A reformed milk crate Thief.

Some of these items I actually use. Just like that, I am one who retrieves hot, fresh treats from the oven with a dingy, 30 year old oven glove.

The perfume has given me a headache. I ponder, for a few moments, my former obsession with fragrances. Back then, it was Polo, Drakkar and this French stuff. I wasn't for real. My headache can attest.

At least I never stole milk crates.