Pass Me A Napkin
IF YOU MET ME FOR THE FIRST TIME at 7:00 in the morning you would think that I was the great-grandson of “Typhoid Mary” (Look it up). For reasons known only to God and the makers of Kleenex I tend to go on a sneezing jag most mornings. It doesn’t matter that I may feel fine and am infectious microbe free. I sneeze.
For a good 45 seconds up to a half hour I look like I am possessed by demons as I lurch and make disgusting noises. Nobody wants to shake my hand in the morning. Hey, I wouldn’t want to shake my own hand.
After my eruptions have stopped and I hose myself down I am once more fit to appear in polite society. While I may be fit for it I really don’t know where to find it. I rarely travel in such circles. I can more likely be found lollygagging with the coffee grounds of society rather than the tea and crumpet caste.
I know that I’m not the only person who greets the day with Karakatoa-like sound and fury. And that is in dry weather. If it is raining outside my sinuses feel a kinship with the volcano and can carry on for quite a while.
All of this surely doesn’t make me appear to be the most attractive guy in the world. I’m not, but given some time to pull myself together and tie up a few dozen loose ends, I can be kinda “Cute in a stupid ass way,” to quote Belgian songwriter Jacques Brel. Contrary to popular opinion neither of us are “Alive and well and living in Paris.” Brel is dead and I am living in Terre Haute, Indiana (That’s French for, “Does anybody have a Kleenex?”)
I once had a cat who suffered the same morning drainage trouble. That was most definitely not a pretty sight. At least my facial hair is trimmed. By the time that cat was finished sneezing she looked like a fur hat that had just washed ashore after a hurricane. We used to share a box of tissues.
I have consulted with Doctors about this condition and the best they could come up with was, “I think you have an allergy to something.” For that insight they spent years in medical school and beaucoup thousands of dollars.
“Well, thank you, Doctor, you lose, but thanks for playing our game!
Johnny, tell the good doctor what lovely parting gifts we have for him!”
During the course of writing this I have gone through six paper napkins. I’m sitting in the corner at St. Arbucks and it isn’t 7:30 AM yet. I think my noises and inspiring looks might be cutting into their sales of Pumpkin Spice everything. In that aspect of it all I think I’m performing a Public Service.
I have muttered some apologies to a few people who have tried to sit near me this morning. They looked at me like I had extra thumbs growing out of my forehead. They moved. I can’t blame them. I can’t get away from it no matter how hard I try.
I try, but all that happens is – I sneeze.