Dear Man in Really Nice Suit with Leather Briefcase Who Got on the Metro Yesterday at Union Station,
I understand. You’re a busy man. I’m a busy girl, even though I don’t look it with my pale blue backpack, hippie messenger bag and iPod stuck to my head to drown out the collective sound of defeat around me. I understand that you had a lot of important paperwork to get done in your short ride to Farragut North, so I even forgave you for spreading out all over me to get this paperwork done. Chances are, you’re far more important (and make far more money) than I ever will be. Deadlines, pressures, clients. I’ve been there. I get it.
What I didn’t get? Why you didn’t cover your beak when you sneezed yesterday. Why you turned your head not toward the aisle, but toward me. Maybe it’s instinct. But I felt your germs blanket me like fog at the Golden Gate before 9 a.m.
And now, I’m paying for it. I feel disconnected. Light-headed. Throbby and achy. I’m on the cusp of a first-class sick, all because you hosed me with your own personal germ rinse. No amount of Bath and Body Works hand sanitizer was going to stop this. You, Man in Really Nice Suit with Leather Briefcase Who Got on the Metro Yesterday at Union Station, are Patient Zero. And now I’m Patient One.
I would tell you that I hope you’re paying for it as much as I am, but I can’t really afford to tempt Karma any more than I already have. I will just say I hope your office is as close to a CVS as mine is. And next time, please don’t sneeze on the person sitting beside you. It’s not cool, man.
Jacque Jo (sniff sniff … blahhhh)