In the bleary-eyed hour as I trudge into the office I encounter a tableaux of smells. Some mornings the oleaginous odors of the commissary drift across my path, other days the wind blows across the loading docks carrying the plumes of diesel exhaust. Still mornings are amusing at best.

People of all colored collars utilize the same entrance I do and I have found that position or salary does not have any bearing on their toilette. The bright-eyed young professional men and women smell of modern fragrances, fresh citrus, light sandalwood tones, and wet hair. Older professionals, almost always men, smell of leather and tweed; the kind of smell that a perfumer would attempt when looking to capture the essence of the cigar bar. In the off chance one catches a seasoned professional woman, they would be whisked away to 8th arrondissement of Paris where due to size of waist and pocketbook limit these women to the cosmetics counter. Unfortunately the group that I admire the most is dwindling as fast as promises of early-retirement buyouts — the older men who smell of talc and pomade.

Conversely there are those of immigrant-worker status who are increasing in number. Obnoxious smells of mustard oil, fenugreek, and cumin mix with the flowery scents of wintergreen, eucalyptus, peppermint, and camphor. On warm summer mornings, one can expect this ethnic bazaar mix with the deodorant soaps and over-applied dime-store “body spray” used by those who either don’t bother looking for a befitting fragrance or have no faith in the laundering of their garments. The winter brings us the gym-bag toting stuffed shirts that smell of soured towels, sweat, and the nervousness of keeping a job as well as keeping a new year’s resolution.

This brings me to this morning. I was greeted with the bazaar, tickled with the talc, but curiously one gentleman smelled of Play-Doh. I think it’s a long shot to assume he was wearing the 2006 Demeter limited edition fragrance “Play-Doh”. I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps there was some kind of alchemic reaction with all the people commuting, essentially drafting behind one another to make the smell of Play-Doh. Talc, mustard seeds, white flower essential oil, the ripe bartlett pear in my backpack?

I’ve been late, a lot. Chronically late for work. My mornings have dragged on and I realize that I can streamline the process to get out the door quicker. It’s not the shower, the wardrobe, the creative ways of cobbling together a ‘nutritious’ breakfast. A big part of my morning is preparing coffee.

I mourn for my super automatic coffee maker. With a touch of a button the grinding mechanism would activate, the water pump would whir followed immediately by the sound confidence and courage pouring into my cup.

Busier mornings, preparing coffee was less courtly. The outside foam of an insulated disposable cup would blister in the microwave as milk heated; foaming milk on that machine was a chore, and I would collect the coffee in a pre-warmed turkish coffee pot which contained sweetener. As the coffee streamed in, I would give the pot a swirl to properly mix the bitter and sweet then pour the contents into the disposable cup. Zero to bliss in ~50 seconds.

My super automatic coffee maker conked out last spring. We’ve had no plans to replace it, but since I’ve been running late for the past few weeks I think I can justify its high cost. In fact, I’ve paused in the middle of writing this to check prices. Despite the failing dollar, they’ve come done in price. I know the snuff will object, but he’s a sucker for a good crema.