(It had to do with the scent of cloves.)

In another stellar attempt at procrastination (paper for a class is due Wednesday) I was looking at some old writing projects. I found one for a friend's writing group that I never ended up joining. The theme was "one of the five senses" or something along those lines:

I step onto the elevator going down and inhale a man’s cologne. Without warning I am four years old, sitting in my pediatrician’s office with a scratchy throat, silently pleading with the nurse with the pretty long black hair to call me into his office so that I can be enveloped in that comforting scent instead of that of the waiting room, rank with dirty diapers, germs and disinfectant.

I sidestep around construction workers rebuilding the inside of a nearby shop and sawdust fills my nose. In a moment I’m twelve, in my parents’ house helping my father remodel our kitchen, hoping he’ll trust me enough this time with the hammer – or at least the measuring tape – so that I can prove to him that I am able.

After lunch I take the long way back to the office, passing the park where a man is cutting the grass. The smell of freshly cut lawn takes me back to countless childhood summer nights playing flashlight tag with my brother and our neighbor, where I would hide for what seemed like hours in the still and silence of the night, and just when I thought they’d left me for good, the flashlight would shine in my eyes.

I step off the elevator and into the stifling, used air of the office. Someone has burned popcorn in the microwave down the hall again. I realize that this is my life now, and I sigh and walk down the hall to my desk.

I deleted one paragraph from the original piece before pasting it above, because it had to do with an ex and there wasn't a way to edit out the potentially personally-identifiable specifics without losing the meaning of why that memory made it into the piece.

Then I did something dumb. I googled him, again. Usually nothing comes up, or nothing new comes up. But this time I learned that he's got a LinkedIn contact in common with one of my LinkedIn contacts.

You know... It's bad enough that I probably live four feet from him and don't even know it... It's even worse that when I see a car that looks like his old car I momentarily panic, even though he probably has a different car these days... Worst of all, it's ridiculous that I STILL THINK ABOUT HIM. But now? Now?!

Now I have to live with the knowledge that there are two degrees of separation between him and myself.

I think it's time to put Kelly Clarkson on repeat and go for a looooong walk.