Sneeze Guard

We've all seen the clear acrylic sneeze guards at salad bars.

Turns out they come in all shapes and sizes.

I was in a cab with friends on Saturday night, and was seated on the left side, behind the driver. After climbing in, telling the driver our destination address, we settle back for a nice (herky jerky, death defying) ride.

The sun was trying its best to poke through the clouds on the very gray day we were having, and when it did, I caught a glimpse. The kind of glimpse that tickles your nose and makes you...

SNEEZE. Two times. Three. Four.

(I always sneeze in even numbers.)

The driver, without even hesitating, takes his right hand off the wheel, grips the plastic partition wall behind his head, and slides it closed.

Thhhhhhhhhhhumpt.

As if my sun-in-the-eyes-made-me-sneeze sneezes were firing germs off all over his head. I mean, I covered my mouth! Said excuse me! Didn't wipe my hands on his shoulders!

My friends and I died laughing. Apparently This Guy is sick of getting sick.

Sensory Overload

The joy of commuting continues.

Today was like any other morning - scrambling to the bus stop, and glaring at the newcomers to the stop who find it not at all insulting, obvious or rude to push their way to the front of the sidewalk as if they were there all along - and the bus came on time.

I board, along with 50 of my closest friends (and by close, I mean physically jammed up against each other).

As I make my way to the back of the double-length, accordian bus, I grab an inch of the pole and brace myself for another wild ride.

And that's when my nose perks up. Starts to itch. My eyes start to water.

The gentleman next to me, decked out in a suit as if he's ready for an interview, must have showered in cologne. BAD cologne. Not the kind that when you smell it in an elevator or a fancy restaurant makes you ponder all sorts of un-ladylike things about the wearer.

No. The bad kind that they sell at Walgreen's behind the makeup counter.

I am face-to-face with a young guy who, thank God, was sans-cologne. He's secretly, inwardly, dying laughing as my eyes well up, my face starts to scrunch up and the sneezes start.

And I mean sneezes. Multiple ones. I tend to sneeze in threes (like my mom) and today was no exception. I had a good 9 or 12 out before I started to giggle.

Uncontrollably.

The unsuspecting cologne assassin was not the wiser. The young stranger near me was. We avoided eye contact for fear of really losing it.

The ride (30 minutes door to stop on a good day) was hell. Sensory overload. Sneeze-a-licious.

I have never been so glad to get off the bus and be greeted by exhaust fumes and the smell of the baking dirty sidewalk in summer.

It was heaven to my nose.