Random confession:

I hate roses.  I hate the way they look and I especially hate the way they smell.

My visceral aversion to the flower stems from a very deep-rooted negative association to the smell.  So much so that I, one time, yanked out a rose bush from the yard of a home we’d just purchased.  I was out there, a la Joan Crawford, chopping and pulling it out by the roots.  It was difficult but extremely satisfying.

Olfactory association is one of the strongest of memory triggers.  I will pluck out roses from any bouquet.  I have tasked a friend with the sole responsibility of ensuring that there are no roses at my funeral (not that it will matter at that point but you can’t be too sure).  

This is not a joke.  

I despise roses and you won’t find any roses in my decor or printed on any clothing in my closet, save ONE exception.  I do have a picture my child made of red swirls that was proudly named “Roses!”  

I feel nauseous when I smell roses.  The smell makes my skin crawl and I end up feeling irrationally angry.  I can pinpoint, exactly, from where this aversion was born.  Suffice it to say that it stems from years of negative (and positive) punishments; decades of berating and insults, that were always accompanied by the sickly sweet smell of roses.  

I know it’s odd, but it’s real.