Now it’s likely that Neutrogena soap is still good for my skin, but I use it because of the smell—slightly medicinal and piney. More than anything else, that familiar smell evokes my college years.
Leaning over one of the sinks in my dormitory bathroom, I would suds up my face, moving my fingers around in little circles like my mother taught me, rinsing thoroughly and patting the skin dry. Then, in the unforgiving fluorescent light, I would examine my complexion for blemishes.
I loved the tight, fresh feel of my skin after I washed my face. That feeling, along with the distinctive smell of Neutrogena, came to signal a sense of hopefulness and discovery—about the date that was picking me up tonight. About the life that lay ahead.
College was a source of continuous learning—in the classroom and beyond. I was studying with professors who were passionate about Shakespeare or Chaucer or Scott Fitzgerald—and invited me to find my own passions. One of them turned out to be Emily Dickinson. Another was a fraternity boy named Denny.
Everything seemed possible in those days—and at the end of the day, I would lean over the sink again and wash my face before bed.