A Symphony of Sinuses in D Major (Dust, Dander, and Despair)

Let me set the scene.

It’s April in D.C.

The cherry blossoms are blooming. Tourists are swarming like salmon in fanny packs. And the entire population has collectively developed the sinus strength of a damp Victorian book.

The Metro?

Oh, the Metro has transcended its identity as a transportation system and has blossomed (literally) into a rolling allergy terrarium—equal parts pressure cooker, sneeze echo chamber, and unsupervised essential oils convention.

If Hell had a seasonal offering, it would be this: standing-room-only on the Yellow Line while 60% of your fellow commuters sneeze in Morse code, sniff like haunted recorders, and whisper-apologize into single-use tissues like they’re about to deliver Shakespeare in pollen-scented tragedy.

🚨 Chapter 1: The Airborne Apocalypse

Let’s not sugarcoat it.

Pollen is airborne war. It’s nature’s glitter—evil, impossible to clean, and stuck to everything from your lashes to your laundry to the inside of your lungs. It coats the Metro benches like passive-aggressive frosting. It lines escalator rails like a yellow breadcrumb trail to the underworld. Even the pigeons look fed up, sneezing silently into their wings like feathered commuters just trying to make rent.

I walk into the station, eyes already watering. My nose tingles like a sixth sense for incoming seasonal doom. I look like I’ve been crying in a hay bale.

Next to me, a man in a suit is blinking so fast he could power a small wind turbine. A woman two seats down is trying to discreetly catch a drip with a napkin from Dunkin’. She’s not winning. Behind me, a guy’s just given up entirely and is breathing through his mouth like a sad jazz flute.

This train doesn’t smell like spring. It smells like dehydrated sinuses, menthol lip balm, and the collective resignation of people who gave up on breathing normally sometime around March 27th.

🤧 Chapter 2: The Moral Dilemma of Mucus

Let’s have a heart-to-heart.

Do I blow my nose openly in public… or suffer in silence like a Dickensian chimney sweep with repressed emotional baggage?

Sneezing is one thing. It’s impulsive. Involuntary. There’s plausible deniability. But blowing your nose? That’s a commitment. It’s a public declaration. The musical equivalent of slamming the door on spring’s advances.

There’s also the question of technique. Nose-blowing exists on a spectrum:

• The dainty tissue flutter (performed by optimists and people with small sinuses)
• The tactical evacuation (that’s me)
• The full-throttle foghorn (that one guy in the corner who refuses to look ashamed)

On a moving train, acoustics transform a nose blow into an announcement. “ATTENTION PASSENGERS: THIS IS A BIOLOGICAL EVENT.” Every honk reverberates like an unpaid student trumpet solo.

Do I get stares? Of course. The “How dare you be human in my general vicinity” look. The “Please contain your biology” side-eye.

But what’s the alternative? Sniffle aggressively? Let mucus declare independence on my collarbone?

Reader, I blew. I blew like a gale-force warning. And I would do it again.

🎼 Chapter 3: The Commuter Soundtrack – Allergy Remix

Rush hour in pollen season sounds less like a train ride and more like a forest of sickly elves rehearsing for a sneeze-themed flash mob. Here’s the official soundtrack, available now on Sad Sneeze Records:

• Track 1: The Polite Cough – Short, stifled, a small attempt at dignity.
• Track 2: The Rapidfire Sniff – Desperate, rhythmic, increasingly futile.
• Track 3: The Allergic Trumpet – Loud, unapologetic, the human equivalent of a trombone with feelings.
• Track 4: The Wheeze Crescendo – Long inhale, shaky exhale, sounds like it should come with a warning label.
• Track 5: The “I’m Fine I Swear” Mumble – Whispered defensively while clearly not fine.

Someone sneezes so violently their tote bag hits the emergency stop button. A woman blesses them like she’s seen the sneeze prophecy fulfilled.

Another man sneezes three times in a row and people start whisper-counting like it’s a sneeze seance.

At one point the conductor announces, “For everyone’s comfort, please cover your mouth when sneezing.”

Sir, with all due respect—we’ve crossed that line. We’re in post-sneeze civilization now.

🧻 Chapter 4: Overheard Allergic Anxiety

Public transportation is a treasure trove of overheard nonsense, but allergy season? That’s when the truly nasal philosophers emerge:

• “This isn’t allergies, it’s an annual identity crisis.”
• “This train smells like 85 brands of antihistamines and one guy’s cologne called ‘Spring Regret.’”
• “I took two Allegra and now I’m either immune to pollen or seeing through time.”
• “If I sniff one more time, I legally have to start a folk band.”
• “Claritin? I’m raw-dogging nature now. I just sneeze into the wind and keep walking.”

These are the people you meet on Metro. Fellow gladiators in the seasonal arena. Allergic warriors armed with CVS receipts, crumpled tissues, and the occasional essential oil roll-on.

💊 Chapter 5: The Great Medication Meltdown

Let’s talk about the rollercoaster of over-the-counter denial.

On Monday, I took the “non-drowsy” allergy pill. I organized every Google Drive folder I’ve ever owned and blinked without rest for seven hours. I saw through walls. I sorted my emotions into tabs.

Tuesday? Took the “nighttime” blend. Dreamt I was dating a sentient box of tissues. Missed my stop. Woke up with a lozenge in my shoe.

By Wednesday, I was steeping ginger root in chamomile and asking a stranger on the platform if they believed in sinus karma. He said yes. We nodded like prophets.

By Friday I was holding a Zyrtec like a rosary bead and whispering, “Take me with grace.”

🚇 Chapter 6: Mucus and the Metro Code of Conduct

We all know the rules:

• Don’t make eye contact for more than three seconds.
• Don’t block the doors like you’re Gandalf.
• Don’t eat full meals unless you’re offering samples.

But during allergy season, there’s an unspoken truce: We all pretend sneezing is not happening, even when it’s happening violently, audibly, and in surround sound.

At one point, a guy in cargo shorts sneezed so hard he dropped his travel mug and just… left it. Another passenger silently handed him a tissue and nodded like a comrade.

That’s the strange magic of Metro: it may be under-ventilated, emotionally drained, and perpetually five minutes behind, but it’s also a place where human suffering becomes… community.

We may not speak. But we sneeze in chorus.

🌼 Chapter 7: Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

By the end of the week, I was defeated.

My immune system had fought more battles than a medieval knight with hay fever. My sinuses were tenderized. My soul smelled faintly of eucalyptus and surrender.

I boarded the train. Sat down. Looked around.

And every single person looked exactly like me.

• Puffy-eyed
• Pollen-weary
• Mildly high on cough drops

One man was wearing two nasal strips like a warrior mask. A woman next to me was reapplying vapor rub like she was preparing for battle. The train car smelled like mentholated dreams and nasal ambition.

I sneezed.

Someone across from me nodded solemnly and said, “Bless.” Not “Bless you.” Just “Bless.”

I nodded back. We understood.

This is what spring rebirth actually looks like: commuters bloated with Benadryl, wiping their noses with sleeves of last year’s hoodie, making eye contact through puffy eyelids and saying, “We’re gonna make it.”

🌸 Epilogue: The Pollen Will Outlive Us All

Dear Metro gods,

Next year, can we not?

Maybe swap pollen season with an extended winter. Or install air filters that do more than hum ominously above the escalators.

Better yet—designate an “Allergy Car.” You know. For the sniffly, the sneezy, the red-eyed wanderers seeking judgment-free tissue zones and maybe a light chamomile fog.

Until then, I’ll be here. Half-drowsy, semi-sedated, fully nasal.

Armed with tissues, antihistamines, and the unshakable belief that someday… someday… we’ll all breathe freely again.

Until then: inhale, exhale, and try not to accidentally bless someone mid-wheeze.#MetroConfessions #SneezingSeasonSurvivor #PublicTransitPollen #ClaritinDidNothing #MucusMutiny #NotAllHeroesCarryInhalers #WeAreTheSneezeWeEndure