You know what I’m talking about. Place the banana(s) anywhere in your kitchen – in a bowl, on the counter, even in a corner of the fridge, and everything surrounding it tastes banana-ish. I ate banana-infused French bread the other day, and yesterday, my daughter (who hates bananas), claimed the tap water tasted like bananas. I like bananas, but I don’t want it invading my pain du beurre.
Bananas are like any other ripening, rotting thing in life. If your job sucks, it pervades all the other elements of your existence. If your relationship is in trouble, you carry that weight into everything you do. The socially-impaired bozo at work makes it harder for everyone; the annoying Tea Party chick in book group drives other people out. One bad banana CAN spoil the whole batch if you let it.
It becomes time to place the banana by itself, separate from all the other things in your kitchen/life that you love. Let that French bread and fresh butter be free. The pervasive banana in your brain must be consciously separated from all the good things in your life, so you can be left to enjoy those and allow them to buoy you, while you deal with the crappy part of your life that is the rotting banana.