I still remember fondly the day we went to pick up those cards. The printer was a small one on a side street in Midtown Manhattan. He’d gotten our business by offering us the lowest price of all the printers we called, provided we paid in advance, so I dipped into my hot dog savings. (There apparently had been a high failure rate either among new ad agencies or among teenage boys going into business. These failures, due to catastrophe and unforeseen financial reversal, for some reason most often occurred between the date business cards were ordered and the date they were to be picked up.) In spite of his low price, the printer treated us like adult businessmen and gave us the royal treatment. He took out his big books of stationery samples and we pored over them with at least as much enthusiasm as any bride selecting wedding invitations. He showed us type styles (we chose Helvetica), camera-ready produced logos (we, of course, chose the Empire State Building), paper quality (something midrange—not too showy, but not cheap either), and printing style (we chose standard raised printing for the stationery). For the business card, however, we went whole hog—heat-embossed, raised printing. Sometimes you’ve got to go all the way!

When I saw those cards, I was transformed. I wasn’t a nobody anymore. I was the president of Demac-Jonas Advertising. Soon, if my car crashed, it wouldn’t have been as if I’d never lived. Life seemed full of endless possibilities. To this day, I can’t walk into a printer’s office (and as the owner of a half dozen publications, I walk into plenty) and not be happily transported back to the day of those business cards, just by the smell of ink.

To me it’s the smell of youth, of opportunity, of new beginnings.

Many people are similarly transported back to their childhood by the smell of a favorite food, like chocolate pudding being cooked, or my grandmother’s potato pancakes. So am I. Many men enjoy the scent of perfume on a well-dressed woman. So do I. But I’ll tell you a secret. For my money, forget the Chanel No. 5. Just apply a few smudges of No. 12 black printer’s ink behind the earlobes, and I’m game for anything.

The best part of those cards was that they allowed me entrance into an exclusive club, the world of adults and real business. No one had invited me to join. I had bestowed membership and its privileges on myself. I was the president of Demac-Jonas because I said I was. I would succeed because I believed I would. A title granted by someone else can always be taken away. Esteem that is dependent on the goodwill of others can always be taken away. But status based on your own self-worth and optimism is yours forever, or at least for as long as you choose to believe in yourself.