The Dangers of Mouthbreathing

I get up every morning at the ungodly hour of 4:45 AM. The first thing I do as part of my routine is to turn on the television to listen to the news and traffic. It helps me wake up and predict whether or not my day is going to generally suck for reasons not under my control. I listen with half an ear to the "traffic and weather on the 8's" at least 4 times during my morning routine. You would think, after all that, and the repeated warnings of the temperature being in the f-ing 30s, I would dress appropriately. But no. Not me. I know better. I still live in the days of early autumn when all you need is a light jacket.

When I settled into the snake-like slug line this morning that had coiled itself all the way around the bus shelter, the realization that it's not going to be a mild winter struck me. I was wearing my stylish leather jacket that is only capable of containing temperatures well above freezing and a very thin shirt underneath. I stood there just a little cold at first, and then the heat reserve built up from my car quickly wore off. I was painfully aware that I chose peep-toe flats to wear to work today, and every exposed part of my body was starting to shiver.

I've been sick for the last week, and while I'm getting better, I still can't breathe through all this congestion. My nose is pretty much clogged all the time, but standing out in the cold made it even worse today. So I graciously accepted my ride resigned to the fact that I'm temporarily a mouth-breather.

The guy who picked me up was such a character that I don't even think I can do him justice by describing him. His energy was bountiful, and his enthusiasm was entirely inappropriate for the hour or the audience.

Shortly after merging onto the interstate, he startled me from my slow tumble into commuter slumber by yelling "WOW! DID YOU SEE THAT!!!??" My eyes flew open expecting to see an 18-wheeler riding tandem on a Mini Cooper, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. He followed up by saying "it was a shooting star! Right there, going across the interstate." I halfway wanted to laugh, but the other part of me, the more jaded and aggressive part of me, wanted to tell him to reserve his enthusiasm for flying body parts or mangled metal. I was not in the mood to hear about missing a shooting star.

Then the really funny part kicked in. He was listening to country music, and Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places" came on (probably for the 80 billionth time on that radio station). He sat straight up with his coffee in his hand and started singing! SINGING at 6:20 AM on I95. It was like being in another dimension where people are happy and sing songs with strangers before the sun comes up. He looked around at me and the other poor bastard riding with us as if to say "aren't you going to join me for the chorus?" This particular song is reserved for very specific situations in my life, and this was not one of those situations. A very drunk Irishman serenaded me with this song (and a few Irish patriot songs), and I'll never be able to listen to it with the same perspective. So no, I didn't sing along. But it actually put a shadow of a smile on my face.

Things quieted down after Garth shut up, and we drove forward into the bowels of 7th ring of Hell (AKA Washington DC). I sat there miserably trying to close my mouth and breathe through my nose, but my body was not cooperating. I was trying to sleep, but the breathing issue prevented it from coming. Then I started to reason to myself that I didn't need to breathe through my nose. That mouth-breathing is a perfectly acceptable way to intake oxygen, and I shouldn't be hung up on it. I willed myself to sleep through the mouth-breathing, but still it wouldn't come. I finally accepted that I wasn't going to get a nap in, so I just relaxed my head and tried to focus on something else.

Mr. Happy broke my Zen moment with a "oh, oops!" Since my eyes were closed, I figured he probably cut somebody off who had a much less friendly reaction, and I didn't bother to look for confirmation. But that wasn't it. Mr. Manners was warning me about something that my body was presently incapable of detecting. Without all of my sensory faculties in line, I had no way of knowing what was happening to me. There was no olfactory detector in service to give me the heads up. And there, in my congested misery, I mouth-breathed Mr. Happy's fart.