III. Sneeze vs. Cough
I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but certainly a child, when I first heard someone voice what I found to be an utterly baffling sentiment: That one should prefer a sneeze to a cough.
In the years to come, I occasionally posed the question to many different people, and almost always received the same bewildering answer. The vast majority, if forced to do one or the other, would gladly sneeze over coughing.
Now, for the record, I’m not talking about a tuberculosis patient coughing up chunks of lung; even the most wretched coke head can’t muster a sneezing equivalent of that. I’m just talking about regular old sneezes and coughs, some worse than others, but none a sign of some Tiny Tim terminal illness.
In this context, the pro-sneeze faction almost invariably cites a sense of relief that supposedly accompanies the conclusion of a good sneeze, putting the Aaaaaah in ah-choo.
There was some tension, and its sudden dismissal results in a minor euphoria. This is akin to the urban myth that claims a sneeze equals one-eighth of an orgasm, or some such.
I can only assume that people who say such things are not sneezing the way I do. Either that, or they have vastly inferior orgasms.
In any event, for me there’s nothing sexual about sneezing. When I’m done, I don’t experience a quasi-orgasmic release, but rather an exhausted sense of relief. It’s not like some dominatrix tied me off before allowing me ejaculate. It’s more like I just got done being water boarded, am grateful to every god who’s ever paraded before humanity that it’s over, and am praying to all of them that it never happens again.
That’s why for me, the choice is a no-brainer. I’ll take coughs over sneezes, either individually or by the peck, any day of the week. And to be clear, I come here to muffle coughs, not to praise them. Both are symptoms of ill-health, either temporary or long termed. Both are unpleasant. And they can both arrive by the yard, aggregating into a tapestry of sorrow.
But there is a fundamental difference between the two. While a cough, and particularly a slew of them, can be quite unpleasant, coughs do not disorient me in the way that even the mildest of sneezes does.
Even the heaviest of heaving coughs is something that takes place in the moment, in the here and now, and which I can not only anticipate, but stimulate if need be, and even moderate to some extent. But a sneeze is its own master, a demanding one at that, and in the end it is far more disorienting.
Even a single sneeze overwhelms my consciousness for a moment, and not in some pleasant, orgasmic way. Meanwhile, a series of consecutive sneezes can send me spinning into a cacophonous purgatory far worse than any holding pen for unchristened babies. It’s kind of like a terrifying episode of The Twilight Zone, but with no plot, and only my depraved eruptions for dialog.
I don’t begrudge anyone who would rather cough than sneeze. In fact, you might say I even envy them a little bit. That anyone could find sneezing to be at all enjoyable is utterly confounding to me. I can only conclude that they do it far less often and with far less severity than I do, and of that I am jealous.
So if after reading this prickly little dissertation, you find yourself at odds with my mean and petty words, then I beseech you to take pity on this wretched creature and know that his harsh sentiments spring from the anguish of a tortured soul and runny nose. And that every time I have cursed you, most sadly, it was all I could muster, mired as I am in the pained helplessness of merely wanting to be like you, free of this snotty yoke.
Thus, let us then part on only the most forgiving of terms, and with doggerel poetry in our hearts.
IV. The Poetry of Sneezing
Let us conclude with verse.
When I was twenty years old, I wrote a sonnet about the horrors of springtime allergies. That was a quarter of a century ago. The thing was buried in some old looseleaf binder, a pile of which are down in the basement, but I managed to dig it up.
I’ve taken the liberty of brushing up this verse a little bit because, like everyone this side of Arthur Rimbaud, the poetry I wrote when I was twenty could use a little fluffing. Nevertheless, the following lines are mostly original, and are in every way true to the original intent, including the pompous allusions to Greek mythology and the ending triplet. Most importantly, this modestly edited poem still strives to represent the grand season of torture.
Rose Fever
Spring holds no amorous roses for me
Nor hyacinths to cheer on the new year
So while stately willow poses for thee
I soak its roots with bitter, steaming tear
Fresh cherry blossoms don’t cradle any
Hopes of joy for me. Their soft, fleeting lives
Rather signal weeks and weeks, so many,
Of their thin, moist petals slicing like knives
Into my raw nostrils, spilling mucus,
blood streaked, onto the green, dewy grass. And
As you thank God for velvety fuchsias
I choke and curse the ground on which they stand
While dandelions frolic round your knees
And everyone exalts Persephone’s
Return to Demeter’s embrace, I sneeze
—
This multi-part discourse on sneezing first ran freely at 3 Quarks Daily.