My mother was raised in an apartment. Both of her parents smoked. As a result, my mother lost her sense of smell. So it can’t be genetic. Not that I’ve ever had the most spectacular smelling senses. But now I don’t seem to have any. And I actually feel blessed that I don’t. At least at the moment.
I love the smell of fresh baked bread. Gingerbread. My husband’s cooking. I sneeze at the very sight of a candle – although I have enjoyed many fragrances – I do have allergies. Perfumes, plants . . . don’t even get me started. I wonder if my allergies have dulled my sense of smell over the years and have finally killed it.
But there’s a lot of smells I don’t miss: I understand the dog stinks. I’ll bathe him today. But I can’t smell him. I can’t smell the blanket that we’ve washed more often than the dog. I can’t smell the gross odors when I am cleaning them – and don’t know if I’ve succeeded in making them better or not. So that’s not good. But not having to smell bad odors is actually quite wonderful.