...The Power Of Scent Is Undeniable.

Over time I've learned that the sense of smell is a pretty powerful thing.  If you want to be pulled back into time, then there is nothing quite like scent to do it...unless you have a time machine, of course.

But for the rest of us who have to rely on riding the wings of nostalgia to get to the past, scent is an invaluable tool.  Whether you've just stepped into an old room you haven't seen in a decade and are transported back ten years, or whether you've stepped back into the kitchen where you just made a delicious dinner and are transported back ten minutes, it's all due to some aroma drifting up your nostrils and somewhere into your brain.  Since I'm an English major and not a scientist, I'm going to assume that's how it works.

A week ago I had a scent-y experience myself when I went to visit family in Connecticut.  The last time I had been there it has been the chilly month of January and I had been enamored with Les Misérables.  I had just seen the movie a few weeks prior, I had just finished my first full listen of the International recording earlier that morning, and I had just bought the enormous novel by Victor Hugo later that morning.  My entire world was filled with Les Misérables.  I heard the songs in my head all day and by night, I read the text.

Now, going back to my grandparents' house in July, quite a few things had changed.  It was beastly ninety degree weather, I had a new full time job, and I was in the process of buying a house with my boyfriend.  And while I still loved Les Misérables, it no longer occupied all of my waking thoughts.  I was, in fact, on an Abraham Lincoln learning kick.

Carrying my bags, the flush from the hot weather, and a Mary Todd Lincoln novel, I walked up the carpeted stairs to the third floor guest room I always stay in.  Halfway up the steps, I was hit with a blast of scent so enormous I could have sat on the stairs for the next hour and contemplated January.  Because the wonderful, familiar scent of the guest room where I had so diligently expanded my Les Misérables knowledge brought back roaring memories of January and that beautiful time when I learned of hope, redemption, and a wonderful man named Jean Valjean through Mr. Victor Hugo.

And so, next time you enter a building or room, take a moment to sniff the air.  You never know what moment you'll be brought back to.

...I Should Feel Free To Jam In Empty Supermarkets.

I am one of those people.

You know, those people.  The intensely shy, frustratingly self-aware, prone to the ultimate of awkward situations, think-very-carefully-before-you-act-and-speak, look behind your shoulder...those kind of people.

But such is life, right?

Well, I didn't realize what a problem this was...well, I lie, because I do know what a problem this is...but I didn't realize recently what a problem this had become until I encountered an interesting situation last night. 

I don't sing in front of people.  I don't dance in front of people.  I'm one of those people who can't seem to let out musical energy in front of people for fear of looking stupid.  This is entirely normal, there are plenty of those people out there.  But here is the kicker: I couldn't even dance or sing in the middle of a deserted aisle in the center of an almost empty grocery store last night.

It was around 10 p.m, not a customer in the store, and I was performing the least-exciting task ever: mopping the floor.  Journey's "I'll Be Alright Without You" came on over the speakers, a song I hadn't heard at work before, and I was almost instantly transformed.  The sixteen year-old me - the one who has become buried by adult issues,  college, and time - instantly emerged, threatening to come out of my mouth by way of the lyrics.  I held the mop tightly, aware that my co-worker was only feet away, and waited for an opportunity when I could celebrate this song that I hadn't heard in literally years.

I had my opportunity when I went to dump the mop.  I walked through an empty aisle with the mop, heading to the back room, but alas, I had my excuse - the mop would be a burden, you cannot possibly air guitar with a mop in your hand, you cannot sing a power ballad and take yourself seriously if you are holding a mop.  I dumped the mop and headed back to the empty aisle.

Oh, perfect opportunity! My arms and legs tingled, I felt a weight in my throat (the song obviously trying to get out), and I kept thinking, this is my chance to jam to Journey at work!  Nobody was there to look, there were no cameras in that section of the store, the jars of Skippy peanut butter would not judge me, the boxes of Cheerios would not tell anyone, the pancake mix would never remember...here was my moment to be sixteen again, to recapture a part of who I am, to break free, to be something that was not boring or anxious...

I reached the end of the aisle without uttering a note, without opening my mouth, without celebrating, and went back to work.  I could not even sing or dance in an empty supermarket.

This was my epiphany, if you will.  I deeply admire people who burst into song in random moments, but I couldn't admire myself enough to belt out the chorus of a Journey song in front of nobody.  I respect people who don't care what people think of them, but I couldn't respect myself enough to not care what the empty air thought.  I love people who have fun, but I couldn't love myself enough to have a twenty-second, uplifting moment.  I could have chosen character, I chose fatigue.

It may sound a bit harsh, but it's true.  Do I want to tell any potential, future children of mine that I used to drag myself through supermarket aisles at ten o'clock at night, trying not to fall down, or do I want to tell them I danced and sang the length of an aisle every Tuesday night and was a better person because of it?

My pledge now is this: next time I encounter an empty aisle and a Journey song, I will take advantage of it.  And who knows, maybe one day I'll advance to choosing a crowded aisle.

...Inanimate Objects Have Adventures, Too.

January 24th was an excruciatingly chilly day.  It was one of those days where the temperature was in the single digits and the weather forecasters warn you to bring your pets inside.  I was to spend the day in ultimate comfort, blasting the heat on my three and a half hour drive to Connecticut to visit family, eating Star Wars gummies and listening to my newest favorite musical, Les Misérables.

But this tale isn't about me, it's about a baked good. 

In the earliest minutes of my journey, I stopped at Barnes and Noble to buy Les Misérables, the novel by Victor Hugo.  As I stood at the check-out, so excited and so proud to be purchasing such a fantastic story, a higher-up employee, who must have been some kind of manager, walked by behind the counter.  He plunked a tiny silver tray onto the counter and said to the cashier, "I leave you in charge of selling this last cookie."

It was sort of an ugly cookie, but it still looked scrumptious.  It was a Christmas sugar cookie, wrapped tightly in plastic with a maroon sticker on it that announced: 50% OFF.  Already a month had passed since Christmas of 2012, so this was an old, forgotten holiday cookie, indeed.  I wasn't even sure what the cookie was supposed to be; it was obviously a face of some sort and I'm guessing it was supposed to be an elf, although it looked more like a creepy ventriloquist doll.  It was decked out in red frosting and had the coldest, blue eyes that reminded me of freezing, freezing icicles.

"I'll take it," I said very suddenly.  Only three seconds had gone by since the man had clunked it down on the counter in front of me and although I would have preferred a snowman or Christmas tree cookie, I could not stop the words from coming.  I'll take it.  I'll take it?  Yes, I suppose I'll take it.

The man and the cashier, obviously glad (and almost a bit incredulous), laughed.  It was clearly a victory for them.

I shrugged and smiled.  "It looks good."  And I did mean that.  It looked ugly, but it did look delicious.  I figured I'd want a cookie at some point during my three and a half hour car ride.

So after establishing myself as probably the most bizarre customer of the day, I walked out of Barnes and Noble with my book and my cookie, laughing to myself.

After living at Barnes and Noble for who knows how many months, the Christmas cookie embarked on one last adventure, with this author.  In the comfort of a toasty warm jeep, the cookie rode shot gun all the way to Connecticut.  It most likely did not see much scenery, but it got to listen to almost the entire score of Les Misérables and hear occasional bursts of frustration from me, aimed at either my own driving or somebody else's.

That night, the cookie's long shelf life ended.  I didn't eat it at home, microwaved and with a cup of tea like the cashier had recommended.  I ate it at midnight, in the cold bathroom over a sink, after waking up with an extreme craving for sugar.

Alas, inanimate objects can have lives, too.  Strangely, I will forever associate that trip to Connecticut with my discovery of Les Misérables and the purchase of an old, forgotten cookie that needed desperately to be taken away from the quiet of a bookstore, to the freedom of the open road.

...About Bravery.

I am probably the most easily terrified person on Earth and usually by things that other, ordinary people don't think twice about.  Allow me to give an example.  Tomorrow afternoon, I need to stop by a newspaper office to drop off an invoice and sign a stringer agreement.  This will probably take five minutes or less, no big deal, right?

Wrong, wrong, utterly wrong!

I have been worrying about this moment for about two and a half weeks.  I think irrational anxieties like this stem from my fear of looking ridiculous or from the countless number of awkward situations I've encountered in my life.

But alas, I must be brave.  And this realization has led me to think of other women, real and fictional, who have been forced to be brave over time.

First and foremost, I think of Anne Boleyn facing the executionor's sword in 1536 and Joan of Arc facing the burning pyre in 1431.  I know my own ordeal is nothing compared to people who have faced execution and it is ridiculous to even compare it to such events, but facing your death knowingly and with dignity is one of the deepest examples of bravery, isn't it?

I think of Harriet Tubman saving herself and others from slavery, via the Underground Railroad and the guidance of the North Star.  I think of Rosa Parks making a difference by refusing to give up her seat on the bus.  I think of Eleanor Roosevelt remaining courageous and becoming so successful, even after her marriage fell apart.   I think of Jackie Kennedy moving on and facing life, right after her husband was shot to death right in front of her, his blood splattering her light pink suit.

I imagine Arwen Undómiel protecting Frodo Baggins, riding hard from the Black Riders until forced to face them and defeat them.  I imagine Dorothy on the winding yellow brick road, confronting new dangers and standing up to the Wizard.   I see Belle's enormous sacrifice, choosing to stay with the Beast to save her father.  I see Elizabeth Bennett confronting Mr. Darcy.  I envision Wonder Woman battling enemies and saving the day.  And Rosie the Riveter empowering others.

And of course, I think of the women of the suffrage movement, the nurses of World War I and World War II, and the bravery of those serving in the U.S Military today.

That being said, I think I will survive entering the unknown territory that is the newspaper office.  I think life will go on.