“God bless you,” I said.
Actually, I didn’t so much say, “God bless you,” as much as I mumbled, “Bless ya.”
He didn’t say, “Thank you.”
A lot of people don’t say, “Thank you,” when I mumble, “Bless ya.”
I’m sure some clever statistician with a big roll of grant money in his pocket knows how often people say, “God bless you,” after other people sneeze. And I’m sure he’s worked out the coefficient of how many people say, “Thank you,” in return.
The ceremonial exchange of phrases after a sneeze is one of those “Marc, what do you say?” moments from my childhood.
I’d be out with my pop and someone would sneeze or say, “Merry Christmas,” or hold a door open for me or give me something and I’d be standing there like a little dope and Pop would look at me and say, “Marc, what do you say?” and I’d say, “Thank you” or “God bless you” or “Excuse me” or “Please” or “Merry Christmas” or whatever fit the situation.
I’m still saying all those things at the proper times, too, but I’m falling down on sneeze etiquette.
I’m not the only one, either.
I’ve noticed in the last few years that you can sneeze and people won’t say anything at all. I think that’s why I’ve started mumbling, “Bless ya,” instead of delivering the full, rounded, “God bless you.” A couple more years and I’ll be mumbling, “Bluhya,” and people will think I just sneezed.
And it’s my own fault. As “God bless you” became more and more rare, I gave in. I shortened what I said and I started mumbling. I’m part of the damn problem.
And what about God? How do you think he feels in heaven, listening sadly to the dwindling number of post-sneeze prayers we send up?
“Bluhya?” he mutters. “What the hell does that mean?”
The guy next to me? He has allergies. He’s gonna sneeze again, probably tomorrow, in the afternoon, maybe 2 p.m.
“God bless you,” I’m gonna say, not loud, but distinctly, so he can hear every word.
If he doesn’t say, “Thank you,” then I’m gonna look him in the eye and I’m gonna say, “What do you say?”
I’m bigger than he is.