The Stinky Bologna Sandwich that Could Have Been a Sitcom Plot

I love sitcoms.

My husband and I use Seinfeld quotes in our daily conversations. We’re still grieving that Go On was cancelled after one awesome season.

But I do tend to get irritated when a huge and crazy situation happens simply because someone won’t admit the truth.

Doesn’t the truth set you free? If he/she/it would just be honest, everything would be fine!

Right?

Except that one time, I wasn’t honest.

I remembered it the other day when I glanced up from my Bible study time at my ultra-cluttered dining room table and saw this:

It was a week-old bologna sandwich. I knew it was a week old because my son had forgotten to take his lunch to school the week before.

Let’s not discuss the fact that it had been sitting unnoticed on a cluttered table for a week, or that my kids eat bologna. It had and they do.

Instead, I’ll tell you a story where I behaved in exactly the same manner as the sitcom characters that get on my nerves.

I had graduated from college in December, but didn’t move to Thailand until the following fall. In the spring after I graduated, I worked as a substitute teacher until I was hired as an aid in an early childhood special needs class.

I loved that job. I loved the four ladies I worked with and the kids. I just generally enjoyed every day there.

I especially loved when we would run out to lunch together. There was a morning class and an afternoon class, so we actually had a lunch break (unlike many teachers).

I brought my lunch one Friday. I remember it as a bologna sandwich (although I don’t remember eating bologna sandwiches at that time in my life).

Whatever.

Anyway, someone suggested we go out to lunch and I thought that was a great idea. I never even thought about the uneaten bologna sandwich when I left school that day.

Then, on Monday morning, I walked into the room to find all four ladies frantically searching for a dead animal.

Something had crawled into the classroom over the weekend . . . and died.

And rotted.

It stunk.

Y’all . . . it stunk bad.

(Incorrect grammar used with purpose for effect.)

I was equally concerned. I thought of the dear sweet children. Sweet children who might find this carcass if we did not find it first.

Sweet children who might . . . touch it.

I searched as well. I remarked about the stench.

I followed my nose.

To my desk.

To my own bologna sandwich. Last Friday’s bologna sandwich.

So I . . .

Snuck it out of the room and flushed the sandwich down the toilet.

And then . . .

Returned to the room to keep searching for the stench that was mysteriously beginning to diminish.

I have no idea . . .

why . . .

I couldn’t tell them.

Really. I wonder to this day why I felt I couldn’t let anyone know it was MY bologna sandwich instead of a decaying chicken.

I shook my head in wonder along with the other women when the smell was finally gone. I used my acting training to appear as mind-boggled as I could be.

And now, I wonder what was wrong with that particular bologna sandwich since this week-old version didn’t even have a scent.

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--Nony