Look, I don’t ALWAYS think that someone’s trying to kill me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t ever. This morning kept me guessing.
I arrived at work to see a package on my desk. More accurately, an inter-office communication envelope. It looked very mysterious, this anonymous brown sleeve with no return address or indication of sender. It was sealed and seemingly hadn’t been opened. Very much some kind of secret agent bollocks. I paused, looking at it. I didn’t think I had any enemies in the building, but who knew? The contents were lumped into one corner, and it seemed that there was a package inside of this package. Could it be arsenic? Glitter? A bag of gummy dicks? Or something even more insidious? I asked around to see if anyone knew who it was from. I got zero affirmative answers. I looked about for any hidden cameras or sniper rifle glares. Nacht. I opened the envelope.
Inside was another paper bag. Square. White. It had a note attached with my name and desk number. Curiouser and curiouser. The white bag had a strange heft, or light density. Weird. I figured if I was gonna die, a mystery package would be the way to go. With one moment spared reflecting on a life well-lived, I opened the bag. It was a cookie.
Not just any cookie, but a Greater Toronto Day sugar cookie, covered with the insignia of our company outreach program. The entire border was encrusted with raw sugar crystals. It was oddly firm for a sugar cookie. I thought for a second, wasn’t Greater Toronto Day back in May? Just how old was this cookie? I contacted the only person I could think of who would be nice enough to a) acknowledge the hard work I do and b) would be thoughtful enough to send something to say thanks. I asked if she’d sent it, and if so, what a lovely gesture it was. I ate the cookie with my morning coffee. It was stale, which for a sugar cookie means hard and crunchy. My favourite textures. Very similar to shortbread. I got an email back from the person I expected sent it saying that yes she’d sent it, and since it was three months old, please don’t eat it. I’d already finished the thing. I told her it was delicious, and I meant it. Sure, maybe it’d be fatal, but at least I’d go out doing what I loved: eating cookies.
Later in the day I had a meeting to attend. It was gonna be a solid hour, and while I didn’t hugely need to poop, I figured it was the smart thing to do. Just a hunch. I did my business in the downstairs toilet like I usually do, since the stalls on our floor are mostly always busy. I walked out to wash my hands, and ran into a guy I’d been talking to about a job. “Oh, I’m glad I ran into you” he said. “I’d been meaning to get in touch, but I got busy and forgot. I like the stuff you sent and want to talk more about the job. Have you got time later in the week?” I did/do. I said I’d love to talk more, and thanked my inexplicable need to shit at the exact right time.
I guess that’s why they tell you to trust your gut.