Someone just microwaved a piece of fish. This should be illegal.
My life has been filled with so many pleasantries lately that I take umbrage at this unwelcome and noxious smell invading my nostrils. This assault equals the time when, during my brief tour of duty as a barista, I was required to cover a morning shift during which an awful customer ordered an Asiago bagel, toasted. As it cooked, I became an Unhappy barista, nauseated. Asiago’s possibly the worst smelling cheese ever (if there are worse, my nose doesn’t want to know).
I’m holding my recently washed scarf under my nose. I suppose it might look strange to my colleagues if I tied it around the middle of my face until the fumes die or my olfactory senses become numb to them? Or perhaps they’ve grown to know me well enough here to say, that’s weird, but that’s Tara.
This stench is simply a reminder — to every yang there’s a yin. This yang’s smelly tang lingers, but it won’t always. And it reminds me of the yinny goodness I’ve experienced, like having the money to buy the scarf I’ll wrap around my head and cover my nose with.
After doing so, I’ll make a list of things to be grateful for, to pass the time until the pungency passes. Currently at the top of said list: that I don’t eat fish, and, if I did, I’d have enough self-awareness not to microwave it in an office full of people who may not appreciate my putrid culinary creations.