Heaven Scent

The towel I used at the gym this morning smelled like a delightful blend of bleach and vomit.
But this isn’t the first time I’ve smelled vomit at the gym.
The first time, which was last week or the week before, a delicious, unidentifiable aroma wafted ever so gently toward me as I was on the StepMill (a cardio machine that I call the “Stairway to Nowhere”). It was presented to my nostrils without fanfare, courtesy of an anonymous donor. “What is that delectable scent?” I asked myself, wriggling my nose a la Samantha Stephens. “Ahh, yes! ‘Tis vomit!”
I’m happy to report that public bulimia is alive and well! And here I thought it’d gone the way of the dodo.
So after the gym, I stopped at J’Adore, the wonderful new French bakery on 23rd Street (just west of Fifth Avenue, on the south side of the street), for an iced coffee, and was instantly assaulted by the overpowering stench of flaky, buttery pastries baked on the premises. I only wish I’d had a gym towel to collect the evidence of my repulsion.
And then I walked home backwards, smiled at the charming woman who threw her cigarette butt into a puddle before she entered an office building, and kicked a puppy. And now I’m fixin’ a big plate o’ scrapple for breakfast!