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Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world's only daily column looking for a lost sneeze.
Is that the sort of thing they'd keep at the lost and found?
Really, when you think about it, this is worse than living in fear of terrorists. There's a sneeze lurking out there, with our name on it in big, bold, flourescent letters, and it's coming for us - we don't know when or where, but it's coming.
It could strike in the check-out line at City Market. It could hit us when that cute boy talking to us is about to ask us out. It could strike as we lean over to say "coochie-coo" and pinch the cheek of the neighbor's baby. None of those would be good.
Here's what happened: It's your average morning, without a hint of terror to set the nerves on edge. We drive to work, la-de-da, looking at the changing leaves as we go and thinking innocent thoughts about skiing and evenings by the fireplace. And as we're walking from the car to the office - WHAM! - it hits. Or almost hits, anyway.
We think everybody knows that feeling of a sneeze coming on: the scrunching up of the nose and cheeks, a slight watery blur to the eyes and a quick inhale of breath, as the mind catches up with the body's reaction to dust, light or allergen, and you realize, hey, I'm about to sneeze my brains out.
But, unlike other bodily reactions, such as, say, an orgasm (for guys, anyway), where once it starts, there's no turning back, sneezes just don't work that way. You can be about to explode, ready to spray and shower everyone around you and, then, whoosh, it's gone.
Oh, don't get us wrong, we tried to rescue it. We looked into the sunlight, trying to coax the sneeze back. We got down on our knees in the dirt parking lot, trying to stir up dust and revive this sinoidal explosion. We even ran into the Corporate Suites break room looking for a little pepper to snort. All to no avail.
So, here we sit, with a sneeze lurking inside us like a time bomb waiting to go off, stuck in this Twilight Zone-ish netherworld where sneezes come and go at their own volition, just waiting for us to let our guard (or handkerchief) down.
Pray for us. It's hell.
***
When we request a little poetry, our readers doth provide. Terrance Boult is obviously ready for winter (unlike a lot of the whiners we've been hearing lately). He sent us this verse to celebrate the coming season, entitled "Summit Powder Day":
A field full of diamond dust that glitters in the sun
Calling out the little child that lives in everyone
We seem like birds soaring just above the silky stuff
We hoot and we holler as we fly through all the fluff
So bright that it hurts one to look at the landscape white
With powder flying everywhere - bug-eyes save our sight
Our legs start to feel it as the burn becomes intense
We head back to corduroy with snow that's smooth and dense
Still sirens sing their snowy song and we heed their call
Soon we laugh as I crash becoming a powder ball
My thighs feel like they're Sterno, I barely can proceed
When we finally reach the lodge to take the break we need
As regular as goosebumps are the mogul mounds of snow
They prompt the kid inside of me to put on a show
Hitting turns on time in the moguls so forgiving
I rock in rhythm thinking, "Oh man, this is living"
White powder explodes forming clouds in skies pure blue
As I recharge my soul making powder eights with you
To keep the workday daemons subdued and far at bay
There's nothing quite as nice as a Summit powder day.
Thanks, Terrance. You've got us pumped up now! Bring on the pow!
***
Here we go again, Sunday.
Folks, if you know how to coax out a shy sneeze, let us know at summitup@summitdaily.com, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just tell us whatever works for hiccups will work for this, too, on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998, ext. 237.
We're out, at nasal DEFCON 4 ...
Is that the sort of thing they'd keep at the lost and found?
Really, when you think about it, this is worse than living in fear of terrorists. There's a sneeze lurking out there, with our name on it in big, bold, flourescent letters, and it's coming for us - we don't know when or where, but it's coming.
It could strike in the check-out line at City Market. It could hit us when that cute boy talking to us is about to ask us out. It could strike as we lean over to say "coochie-coo" and pinch the cheek of the neighbor's baby. None of those would be good.
Here's what happened: It's your average morning, without a hint of terror to set the nerves on edge. We drive to work, la-de-da, looking at the changing leaves as we go and thinking innocent thoughts about skiing and evenings by the fireplace. And as we're walking from the car to the office - WHAM! - it hits. Or almost hits, anyway.
We think everybody knows that feeling of a sneeze coming on: the scrunching up of the nose and cheeks, a slight watery blur to the eyes and a quick inhale of breath, as the mind catches up with the body's reaction to dust, light or allergen, and you realize, hey, I'm about to sneeze my brains out.
But, unlike other bodily reactions, such as, say, an orgasm (for guys, anyway), where once it starts, there's no turning back, sneezes just don't work that way. You can be about to explode, ready to spray and shower everyone around you and, then, whoosh, it's gone.
Oh, don't get us wrong, we tried to rescue it. We looked into the sunlight, trying to coax the sneeze back. We got down on our knees in the dirt parking lot, trying to stir up dust and revive this sinoidal explosion. We even ran into the Corporate Suites break room looking for a little pepper to snort. All to no avail.
So, here we sit, with a sneeze lurking inside us like a time bomb waiting to go off, stuck in this Twilight Zone-ish netherworld where sneezes come and go at their own volition, just waiting for us to let our guard (or handkerchief) down.
Pray for us. It's hell.
***
When we request a little poetry, our readers doth provide. Terrance Boult is obviously ready for winter (unlike a lot of the whiners we've been hearing lately). He sent us this verse to celebrate the coming season, entitled "Summit Powder Day":
A field full of diamond dust that glitters in the sun
Calling out the little child that lives in everyone
We seem like birds soaring just above the silky stuff
We hoot and we holler as we fly through all the fluff
So bright that it hurts one to look at the landscape white
With powder flying everywhere - bug-eyes save our sight
Our legs start to feel it as the burn becomes intense
We head back to corduroy with snow that's smooth and dense
Still sirens sing their snowy song and we heed their call
Soon we laugh as I crash becoming a powder ball
My thighs feel like they're Sterno, I barely can proceed
When we finally reach the lodge to take the break we need
As regular as goosebumps are the mogul mounds of snow
They prompt the kid inside of me to put on a show
Hitting turns on time in the moguls so forgiving
I rock in rhythm thinking, "Oh man, this is living"
White powder explodes forming clouds in skies pure blue
As I recharge my soul making powder eights with you
To keep the workday daemons subdued and far at bay
There's nothing quite as nice as a Summit powder day.
Thanks, Terrance. You've got us pumped up now! Bring on the pow!
***
Here we go again, Sunday.
Folks, if you know how to coax out a shy sneeze, let us know at summitup@summitdaily.com, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just tell us whatever works for hiccups will work for this, too, on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998, ext. 237.
We're out, at nasal DEFCON 4 ...
