That Ain’t No Rose
Sometimes instincts are no fun.
I’ve had occasion a few times in the last week to note some sort of bad odor. It’s been nothing awful but it’s happened enough that I was able to notice a pattern. I’m going along breathing, minding my own business, when my nose catches a whiff of something noxious. Then, rather then doing the sensible thing and holding my breath for a few moments while the scent goes on to wherever it’s going, my alertness perks up and I quickly breathe in a little deeper, the better to experience and catalog just how bad the badness of the odor is.
God says this is important. God says some odors need to be dealt with quickly, like smoke, or skunk, and that the smells need to be understood in order to react correctly. I, on the other hand, am just tired of divining the nuances of the urine that highlights the streets of San Francisco or that permeates the clothing of the homeless.
I get that the instinct is important; I just wish that it were a little more unconscious.
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