The sneeze

I am having a problem with my wife. Well, maybe it’s not a problem. More like a mystified incredulity that sometimes leaves me in a tight spot.

It’s the toilet paper. Whenever she changes it she puts on backwards, so that the next sheet is hidden, hanging behind somewhere. There ceases to be any dispensing action – instead it’s all mucking about, twirling it around, trying to get something going. Why does she do it?

I’ve not actually brought it up yet – I don’t want to start down that quibbly road whereby we become a caricature of that long-married couple perpetually arguing about inconsequential domestic peeves. But after much study I’ve concluded that there is more than chance at play here. She puts it on backwards on purpose.

Maybe there’s another reason I haven’t mentioned it. Maybe I don’t want to know the answer. There can’t possibly be any rational explanation for it – anything she says is bound to make me revise my long-standing (and probably delusional) understanding of that which makes her tick.

So if I spot it in time I just quietly shake my head and put it right. But sometimes there’s no time – sometimes my need is desperate.

But it’s not bowels I’m talking about here – not this time. The real issue is trying to catch a sneeze before it’s too late.

I can’t sneeze. Well, I can sneeze, but I try like hell to avoid it. My sneezes come from a different place than other people’s sneezes. It begins at the base of the spine and travels swiftly upwards, gathering commitment from as many primary and secondary physiological systems as can be roused. And they do rouse.

This sneezy weasel is quick, sometimes so quick I don’t even realize what’s going on, too late for action, even if I could somehow unravel the toilet paper. Most times I can head it off, but when I fail, I am wholly taken by it. I can’t pull back. A great eruption of sound and ejecta ensues. My lungs, my sinuses, my throat and vocal chords, and then finally my nose – everyone jumps into the fit. And it’s never just one – it’s three, four, five uncontrollable spasms of hateful disruption. My son stops what he’s doing and stares in horrified fascination as I convulse again and again, the sound like the startled bark of some sick beast.

Afterwards I am thoroughly shattered. Random muscles are now sore – muscles that had no business being involved in what should be a simple bodily function. Three layers of skin have been scraped off the back of my throat. My head is pounding in pain. My eyes are watering. And my hands are full of the unmentionably disgusting contents of my innards.

Life was fine just a moment ago; now I am recovering from the train wreck of multiple involuntary seizures. I feel stomped on, the life beaten out of me. Whatever I’d been doing, however I’d been feeling is now gone, replaced by a shell-shocked exhaustion. My head pounds. The back of my throat is raw. All energy is gone. I feel sick, confused, and thoroughly defeated.

For some people a sneeze can be a pleasurable interruption to their day. I read somewhere that some lucky women can even experience orgasm during a sneeze. Life’s not fair.

I’ve tried things. Like pinching my nostrils, or blowing my nose vigorously, or reciting verse backwards. No result. I’ve tried just going with it – offering no resistance to the oncoming surge, but this approach just intensifies the shock. Afterwards I must lie down in a dark room for an hour.

Well, there is one thing that helps, but it’s a bit silly, and I don’t really get it. It’s my wife again. If she’s nearby and senses an upcoming attack, she does this weird magic waving motion thing with her hands. If I focus on her waggling fingers, the sneeze just backs down, defeated, and the crisis is over. It’s not as good as an orgasm, but it beats the alternative.

There are some things about my wife that I just do not understand. The backwards toilet paper is one, the waggly fingers another; there are many more. My instinct is to not question these things. She knows why she does it, and although it mystifies me, I love her for it.