I am everything Sushi is not.
To be candid, I can barely find my pants in the morning. There are ketchup packets in my bathroom and I often run into the middle of busy streets without looking. Matching my socks is a profound sartorial achievement. I’ve broken two work-desk drawers in the last year. There are 18 light bulb sockets in my apartment right now, and only two currently host a working bulb. My 2008 tax returns are still wedged underneath my pantry cart, and I burn my feet whenever I make pasta.
In other words, I am not graceful. Or elegant, well-composed, balanced, organized, attractive or at all formal. Throw in the fact that I typically don’t care for fish, and you’ll perhaps understand my surprise when the words “we should make sushi” slipped out of my mouth.