Mary Bellamy

I work near someone who wears too much perfume. Working on a college campus, I'm quite used to the boys who douse themselves in cologne or the girls who use enough Victoria's Secret body sprays to smell like a nudie bar dressing room. This woman, however, is on a whole new level. She walked past my door about 10 minutes ago, and I can still smell her perfume in the air. Strongly.

If she wore a more pleasant scent, perhaps I wouldn't mind, but this is a noxious old European lady-type perfume. It digs its way into the nostrils and stays there until I get a headache. And the worst part is that I don't know of a tactful way to let her know how bad it is. Maybe I should just write a letter to Dear Abby and hope she recognizes herself.

UPDATE:
I should know better than to bitch about someone's perfume. In fact, I longed for the sweet, heady aroma of her heavy perfume when I hit the gym during my lunch break. I found myself trapped on a recumbent bike next to a man pedaling and sweating furiously in what smelled to me like some very dirty socks. Karma is a bitch.