the unfinished sneeze

Once a very long time ago I ended a relationship, and my would-be ex kept remarking how unfair I was being because he didn't get "resolution."

Which made no sense to me, because, as I assured him, I felt most resolved. My required part in the drama was, as far as I was concerned, finis: exeunt, pursued by a bear.

I'm wondering what it is, though, that has us hard-wired to expect a complete and satisfying conclusion to the little events in our lives. We think satisfaction--meaning, I supposed, that we anticipate no further twists of events, that all plot developments have been accounted for, and that there are no loose ends--is our due. Things don't necessarily have to end happily--some people don't even like happy endings!--but it's much better if they end thoroughly, so we can quit thinking about it.

I liken that sensation to the unfinished sneeze. I love a satisfying sneeze--the kind that just blows your whole head free from the inside out and that leaves your day feeling significantly lighter and more directed. (I'm sure this has nothing to do with the snot that may have gotten blown out at the same time.)

I'm most discontented when I am deprived of the satisfying sneeze. This is a problem, because normally when I sneeze, I like to sneeze six times. Six times is what I need in order to feel completely satisfied. When only five sneezes happen, it throws off my whole day. I'm discontented. I feel like something has been left undone, and that nothing will be right until it is taken care of. Except I'm not sure what it is that needs the attention.

I hate that. It's almost like you have to go back to bed at that point to get a clean start.

But it's a lot to expect. Six sneezes can be hard to produce! Especially six good ones. We're not just talking about individual sneezes, either--though these are quite important--we also have to consider the relationship of each to the next. The sneezes need to be timed, and each individual sneeze in the lineup needs to have its precise sense of buildup and not-quite-finished roundness before the other appears. The last is supposed to be the most powerful. It should begin at the back of the skull, emerge out the nose, an have a satisfying vocal undertone to it. Afterward your head should feel clear and ready to pursue its next, usually brand-new agenda.

It occurs to me that it would be particularly satisfying if, in the days to come, the remnants of my shrunken tumor came blowing out my nostrils with that last sneeze. I particularly like the possibility of being able to look at it.

Now that would feel complete.