When I was little, playing at my grandparents’ house was a big adventure. Accordingly, one of my favorite toys was a safari set: open-top Jeep in that shade of cream that passed for white some thirty years ago, just like my grandfather’s Datsun; two safari explorers; and a lion and a tiger companion. At least I assumed they were companions. I wasn’t around when the toys were purchased – for all I know, they might have been intended as lion and tiger prey, locked in a battle of eternal struggle between man/machine complex and beast, thwarted only by my grandparents’ pre-emptive decision to toss the tiny elephant rifles that came in the set. Anyway, the Jeep had a little rear well into which the animals nestled very snugly, allowing them to go for scouting expeditions over the mulch and such – standard adorable small child mind-concoctions.
Since the toys spent the entirety of their time in specific locations, they developed a distinctive smell: partly plastic of a certain age, partly musty basement toy chest, partly dirt. It was a good smell.
To come to my point, the lady in front of me at yoga last night - namely her feet, closer than necessary to my face - smelled exactly like that safari set. It didn’t work as well on her. Every chataranga-up dog transition brought me into intimate space with a memory from which I instantly tried to distance myself. Psychological aversion? No - ruthless utilitarian jettisoning of sentimentality in favor of base human distaste for someone else's dirty feet in my face-space.
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