One time this happened...

The fluorescent lights in the break room are like tiny pinpricks to my eyes. Last week, during one of my daily coffee ritual visits, I tried to impress my coworker Emma by ordering our drinks in a smooth, coffee-shop kind of voice - I mean, not smooth, but I tried.

As I stood there, frozen in the dimly lit airport coffee shop, I watched her attempt to pour a packet of what looked like ketchup into my lukewarm coffee. Her eyes were set on the prize – a uniform, steaming cup of what she no doubt envisioned as 'Americano-flavoured syrupy goo'.

I once wore a "World's Okayest Golfer" t-shirt and accidentally convinced our office mail lady, Mrs. Jenkins, that it was a prestigious club membership ID.

The smell of last night's pizza wafted through our morning coffee, overpowering the aroma of over-brewed grounds. I awkwardly juggled spoon and pastry, trying not to get crumbs on my interview outfit for a job I was fairly certain I couldn't get.

I tripped on my cat and face-planted into the breakfast cereal. I was late for a meeting anyway, but I was pretty sure my coworkers hadn't seen me with Froot Loops stuck to my face before.

My shoes have the peculiar smell of stale popcorn, remnants of a movie theater concession stand job I held over winter break during my sophomore year. Every Tuesday, after clearing the trash, I'd slip behind the candy counter, where a hidden stash of stale kernels would accumulate in the ventilation unit.