“Bottled bachelor” is that smell of sour washrags, dirty socks and black leather sectionals particular to straight, unmarried, middle-aged men. It emanates from an uncle’s apartment or the office of a university professor. “Scented Spinster” is its olfactory foil—a mélange of expensive breakfast cereals and dryer sheets. But these smells are just by-products of life, actions which keep the world in balance. Where our bachelor would just pluck yesterday’s underwear from the leg of his track pants, our spinster applies Newton’s Third Law of Motion by folding her bras in half, straps neatly tucked into their nesting cups.
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