Tuesday, January 24, 2006

The Month of Janubetterwatchit

It's January and I'm feeling feisty. My last several blogs have been pugilistic, to say the least, and I'm blaming it on the lamest month of the year. December has the holidays. February has the decency to be short. January just hangs on in the middle like the nasty fifth-grader on the kindergarten monkey bars, which makes me want to kick some ass.

I knew something was up yesterday when I found myself explaining to Brad, with great passion, in the middle of Crosby Street, how urgently I want to sneeze on people who hold subway bars with a napkin.

It's stainless steel. Now put your hand on it like an adult, or else I refuse to be held accountable for the fountain of bodily fluids I'm prepared to launch in your direction.

I'm not the most tolerant person in the world. Ask anyone who's ever tried to eat with me when someone at the next table is making loud chewing noises. I have a menagerie of pet peeves so varied and exotic I could charge admission. Even so, I can usually ride in an elevator without praying for the cables to break so the guy screaming into his phone will shut up. Permanently. I don't usually want to end the life of an elderly co-worker for flirting with the doorman in the morning and having the unmitigated gall to eat her sandwich too voraciously at lunch.

I'm blaming it on all this friggin' January.

I think I deserve a medal for resisting January this afternoon and bringing one of the company bigshots their coffee unlicked. It's true that my coffee was on them in exchange for retrieving the beverage, which would have been enough to make me happy if I were an unJanuaried underling. As it stands, though, I'm full up with January and there is nothing more I wanted to do than leave my cooties all over the lid. I didn't, of course. I would never. But it's that time of year when I'm a slave to my basest impulses and, apparently, many of those involve my spit ending up on other people.

Throughout the whole rest of the year I exercise a great amount of self-control in public places. I'm comparing myself to the myriad of people with whom I come in contact each day who spit on the subway, fart in the elevator, pick their noses while making coffee and do the unspeakable things that women do in the ladies restroom nearest my cube. It's just come January--when the days are short and the medical manuscripts keep rolling in and the subway is crowded because it's drippy outside and dogs are wearing nicer sweaters than I am--that I just want one day where I get to punch a stranger and hawk one giant, superhuman, January loogey right someone's hair.

Is that so much to ask.


Blogger Buckley said...

I'm not usually one for answering rehetorical questions, but in this case I think it's better to be safe than sophistimacated. Kathy, yes. That is too much to ask.

10:42 AM  

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