Yesterday morning, my first day back home after the trip out West, I reach into my refrigerator and pull out a carton of milk. Sell by February 19. I look at the date for a while, blankly, then try and force my sleeping brain into some calculations. It’s, what, the 25th? So this milk is five, six, or possibly seven days past. (Early in the morning, subtraction is an approximate science.) Almost a week. But that’s okay, right? I mean, you can still drink milk for a week past that date, can’t you? I stare blankly at the date a while longer. Maybe that sell by date is actually the last date to safely drink the milk. Perhaps, by now, the milk is a full week towards yogurt. I consider calling my mom for advice on this, but realize it’s still four in the morning, her time, and decide she won’t be too helpful. I look at the milk a little longer, then finally place it back in the fridge.

Cut to this evening, when I return from a rehearsal with the Center Symphony. I walk to the fridge and pull out the same milk carton. Without the morning fogginess, I rationalize at full tilt: How bad could the milk be? I’ll just take a sip and toss the rest if it tastes strange. I take a sip. It tastes strange. Or maybe not. I can’t really tell if it has an aftertaste or if I’m just producing one psychosomatically. I decide I’m bluffing and chug down the rest of the glass. Carton in one hand, glass in the other, I wait to see if my stomach has a comment on the matter. Apparently not. I put the glass in the sink. I’m pretty sure I should just toss the rest of the carton of milk, but after a few moments of indecision replace it in the fridge. I can always deal with it tomorrow morning.