Yesterday found me at the auto shop for a little routine maintenance. (For the record, “routine” does not equal “cheap.”) The joint was jumping with customers, and waiting area seats were scarce. After walking into the room and scanning the room, I took the only available chair. It was at the doughnut table.

 

At this particular auto shop, there’s usually an area set aside for a large tray of doughnuts. The owners are in the process of renovating the building, so the regular waiting area isn’t accessible. Until construction is finished, customers are pointed in the direction of a temporary trailer. They call it a “bungalow,” but trust me, it’s a trailer. Anyhoo, all the tables and chairs from the old waiting area are crammed into the tiny, temporary trailer, out in the parking lot. The coffee machine has been brought over as well, so of course the doughnuts made the trip, too.

 

The doughnut tray is probably around 28 inches wide by 15 inches high. The table on which the tray is kept is a wee bit smaller. Why chairs are placed at that table is beyond me, unless of course someone just bellies up to the tray and digs in. But I digress…

 

I walked in, saw the open seat, and took it. I held my book in my lap and hooked my bag over the corner of my chair. Fortunately, the doughnut table was against a trailer window, so I placed my coffee on the sill. I was set.

 

But I kept smelling those damned doughnuts. You know the smell: sugar mixed with pink. It’s the sort of aroma that makes you want to get your fingers sticky, just so you can lick them clean. And people kept coming over to the doughnut table for – what else – doughnuts. I wasn’t in their way or anything, and no conversation was exchanged. I just kept getting the full dose of that doughnut perfume, each and every time a waiting customer lifted the tray’s cover.

 

And yet I resisted. I was proud of myself. But I can tell you this: I’m not sitting at the doughnut table again. I’d rather be proud of myself for something else. Word.

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