My friend Sue found a new perfume.  It doesn't smell like anything she's worn before.  Me, I don't wear scents often, but when I do, it's back to the tried and true.  There's the inexpensive cologne my mother bought for me when I was a child.  There are the three perfumes everybody in my high school wore.  And then there are the citrus scents that--I read somewhere, I swear--make men think the wearer is younger than she really is.  I think that's only if the men are blind.

You'll notice a theme--I choose smells that bring back the good old days.  There's nothing like an aroma to cause instant time travel, and I love that.  It can happen with food, with furniture polish, with the exhaust from a city bus.

That's precisely the reason Sue went rogue with her new purchase.  She wants to forget the past.  She's in the process of shedding a lot of sorrow, letting go of things that need to be released.  She's doing all the conventional things:  seeing a therapist, talking to friends, keeping a journal, praying.  Those are good things.  But the new perfume purchase is brilliant.  I'm thinking it should become the gold standard for starting over.  When the past is painful, you don't want to smell anything that takes you down memory lane.

Think about it.  You write down everything in the house that is scented:  household cleaners, fabric softener, hair products, lotions, lipsticks.  Toothpaste.  Mouthwash.  Deodorant.  Go ahead.  Make your own list.  I bet it's really long.

Now.  Go through the list.  When did you start using Tide, or Crest?  Is anything connected to an old, long-gone boyfriend?  Are you still hanging on to the lip gloss recommended by the college roommate who always made you feel like the ugly duckling?  Do you still buy that toilet bowl cleaner because your mom, who was always critical of your housekeeping, brought it with her once when she visited?

What would it cost to dump the whole bad lot and buy new?  Maybe as much as one hour of psychotherapy.  Or two.  How much time would it take to find substitutes?  What's not to love about a leisurely trip through Target, sniffing soaps and tanning lotions?  Wouldn't it be fun to splurge on a tiny vial of some exotic perfume that says, "This is the new, improved me?"  Besides, when the past is weighing you down, you've got to get out.  Go to the mall.  Use those little testers at Nordstrom or Dillard's.  Imagine yourself swathed in something dark and smoky, or whatever is both the opposite of where you've been and pleasantly evocative of better days ahead.  It's cheaper than buying a new wardrobe.  It's more sensible than a radical change in one's diet. It's less drastic than cosmetic surgery.  It's so much more immediate than one more self-help book.

My friend Sue is a genius.  She's not through the tunnel yet, but she's throwing off, left and right, whatever takes her back to a place she doesn't want to go.  Ahead is fresh air and enough light to see by.  I am hopeful for her.  I am damn proud of her bright idea.  Think of me as her publicist.

Stage Fright

It started with a forwarded e-mail from my brother. A group of alumni from my high school were trying to put together a reunion choir--32 years of a capella singers, directed one more time by their revered Mr. C. "Let's do it!" I shot back at my brother. Because he loves me, he agreed. But he wasn't totally on board with the groundswell. A few folks had taken this one and run with it big time: Auditions would be required, or so we thought. High standards would be maintained. Monthly rehearsals would be scheduled in various cities over the next 16 months. Participants would be expected to memorize 25 challenging, mostly sacred, choral pieces, harking back to the days when public schools could get away with that sort of thing.

Bubba ixnayed auditions, said he would be happy to sing the alma mater at the end of the program but would otherwise warm a seat in the audience. Closing in on 60, he didn't feel the need to get anybody's stamp of approval, and frankly, the hoopla seemed out-sized. I agreed. I had loved that choir; we were the best of our kind in town (not that we had much competition). I had loved the conductor. But I had moved on. Besides, I still heard the voice of my late mother, who sat through multiple concerts of roughly the same repertoire for six years, dutifully applauding each of her three children in succession. After those days were long gone, she said to me, "If I never hear 'Little Drummer Boy' again, it will be too soon."

Despite this low hum of cynicism, I caught the bug that the locals were spreading through e-mail messages, a You Tube video, and an elaborate web site. I missed singing; here was my big chance--as the organizers dramatically referred to it, "One Last Time." Feeling a little too close to the grave, I heard an urgency in those words. I could do worse than to go out singing, I thought. Still, I was wracked with stage fright.

Of course. I knew what that was: sensible, mature caution, the warning light that comes on when one is invited to jump off a precipice. I would have to learn all the music by myself; the rehearsals were hundreds of air miles away. I might embarrass myself up there. I didn't want to disappoint or aggravate the venerable old director or anybody standing near enough to hear my bad intonation or garbled words.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I'd never been afraid of public performance. I love the stage! Likewise, I know that I have been blessed with relative pitch, a good musical memory, and a heart that swells to certain combinations of sounds. No, this stage fright had nothing to do with the spotlight.

The stage that scared me the most was the one at which I found myself chronologically, the one that has claimed me and my tender psyche. I'm having trouble stepping up to the plate of the last third of my life.

I've discovered that people my age fall into two categories: My husband and many of my friends have chosen to fight aging with every fiber of their being. They exercise religiously, eat all the right foods, embrace cosmetic procedures, and keep up with every technological advance and gadget. They refuse to "act their age" and are determined to stay as young as they can for as long as they can. There's a kind of bold daring in the way they live.

Then there are people like me. Aging has always seemed like a merciful way to lay down the burdens of my youth--the oppressive demands of beauty-seeking, the competitive sizing up of one another, the striving that is necessary to climb the vocational ladder. I internalized these high-maintenance values early and do battle with them daily. What I call graceful aging is probably just a desire to let go gently, but decisively, of all that work.

Being called into action for this choral performance has created a conflict between my stubborn attachment to an "old" self-concept and the unreserved joy that I feel every time I sing this beautiful music. An energetic girl is yelling in the old-timer's ear, "I'm baaaaaack!" She won't shut up.

In fact, she has had the audacity of late to claim what she says is her rightful place in this aging body. She shoves her way into my brain and says, "Outta here, Granny! This is MY space." "Granny" is having a hard time standing her ground. She's scared but starting, slowly, to enjoy the teenager in her head. The old girl is growing fond of the young one. She wonders what it would be like to stand down and give the youngster pride of place. Will the oldster look foolish? God knows, she doesn't want to look foolish.

Yet the happy child inside keeps posing questions. "Who gets to decide your age?" "Are you afraid of me, or are you afraid of all that stupid stuff you thought you had to do to 'stay' young?" "Can't you have an old face and a young heart?" The 60 year old doesn't have a lot of answers, but she is starting to wonder if the child has a point.

Who knows what the outcome of this territorial tussle will be? In the meantime, I think I'll keep on singing, with apologies to Oscar Hammerstein II.

Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect

And whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect I'm afraid.

While quivering in my shoes, I strike a careless pose

And whistle a happy tune, so no one ever knows I'm afraid.

The result of this deception is very strange to tell

For when I fool the demons I fear, I fool myself as well.

I whistle a happy tune, and every single time,

The happiness in the tune convinces me that I'm not afraid.

Make believe you're young, and the trick will take you far.

You may be as young as you make believe you are.