Friday, February 1, 2013


Someday soon you really should pay us a visit and listen to us sneeze. My husband does this frequently each day so you will be sure not to miss his stentorian performance.  His sneeze would knock your socks off. 
His yell reverberates off the walls. It’s painful to the ears.
It almost scares the life out of our grandchildren.
My sneeze, on the other hand, is silent. You’ll have to be watching me to know that I sneezed. I don’t stifle the sneeze; I’m just silent about it. I don’t even murmur a tiny “achoo”, though you’d think my very Brunhildesque physique would be capable of it. 
The reason for this, you see, is that when I was young I knew there were monsters under my bed. Yep! There were! And if I sneezed they’d hear me. But I had to sneeze, you see, and so I learned to do it silently: very, very silently. All the energy of the missing sneezing noise has to go somewhere, and to this day I get a little chill right down to my toes.  I can say unequivocally that it is even a bit pleasant.  I don’t recommend you try it – this silent sneezing is best left to us life-long professionals.

I guess, as with Jack Sprat and his wife, my husband and I were meant to marry sneeze-wise: he cannot be silent and I cannot make noise. (One never knows when the monsters will appear, do one?)




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