The cosmetics and perfume counters at Bloomingdales smell like Christmas to me. Lights and mirrors, glass balls and wreaths, motorized displays and piped in music shout Christmas cheer from every available surface of the sales floor, and the vulgarity of the display makes me cringe inside. We have commodified Christmas almost completely, deadening ourselves into mere consumers, purchasing anything and everything to try and fill the void left where a childlike love and wonder used to be.
And yet: the sales floor of Bloomingdales, or Macy's, any department store really, makes some inner child in my heart sing with happiness at the knowledge that Christmas is coming, really truly coming, and that same inner child breathes in the smell of the Chanel counter and smiles, and he eats all of these lights and mirrors and ornaments and wreaths and displays and that one Mariah Carey song up with a fucking spoon.
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