From SciAm’s “The Hidden Power of Scent: Scientific American“:

[P]eople who lose their sense of smell often gain a new appreciation for its importance.

The article goes on to discuss mostly those functions of the olfactory system to which our conscious experience does not have direct access, the murky underworld of pheromones and adrenaline-detection—great stuff, to be sure.

But during the long period in which my sense of smell was—if not totally absent—wildly sub-par, I didn’t feel alienated or socially paralyzed, just a bit left out. You’d never imagine yourself wanting so badly to smell a skunk, but when everyone else in the car is in on the laugh, you want to be, too. And walking into (or even past) a pizza parlor was never as exciting for me as for those with whom I walked.

Once my sense of smell came back, I did indeed appreciate its powers—not all of them good. On the one hand, the smell of rose water will always remind me of my mother, in a deeply calming way that is somehow prior to any conscious imagery of her. I don’t even know why; I imagine she used some kind of spray or wash. (Mom, what’s the story?)

And now, every time I eat anything serious, I bring it close to my face, shut my mouth tight, and take a deep, loud breath. I do so to the dismay of my tablemates, but very much in the service of my own dining pleasure. (As time goes on, I’m learning that a gentle waft can be a more effective scent delivery system, and that if the food is hot enough, you don’t even have to breathe in.)

On the other hand, though, now I do smell the skunk, and it makes me wonder what I’d been thinking in that car. I can’t help but be reminded of how badly I wanted to start shaving, before it was time. My father told me I should wait, that it’s a hassle, and that I didn’t need to do it yet. Now I wish I didn’t have to, every time I put razor to cheek.

But if I really hated skunk, I could avoid the country. In other words, there are worse problems. Nobody told me how bad airplanes can smell, for example, a warning I wish I’d had before I let my last job take a high-travel turn.

Likewise, before last summer, I never understood what it’s like to be in a hot rain in New York City. In a joke that has traveled far, Letterman noted that New York “makes its own gravy.” When I first heard that line, it wasn’t funny because I didn’t understand it. Now, it’s not funny because I do.