There comes a point in life when your body stops being quirky and starts being a full-time performance art piece. Lately, mine has chosen the medium of sneezing. I’m talking 40 times an hour. Yes, I counted. Somewhere between performance art and torture chamber, I’ve become a walking, wheezing, itchy, sweaty sneeze machine.

And here’s the kicker: people feel obligated to say “Bless you.” Every. Single. Time. Let me tell you, there’s no faster way to erode goodwill in a room than to require people to bless you on loop like they’re stuck in some divine call-and-response game. At some point, it stops being politeness and starts feeling like a hostage situation.

I try to wave them off: “Don’t bless me. Save your prayers for someone else. I’m a lost cause.” But nope, the human reflex kicks in. They bless, I sneeze, they bless again. It’s a toxic cycle. If sainthood were granted through blessing endurance, my colleagues and family would be canonized by now.

So I turned to Benadryl, which is basically a cruel joke disguised as a cure. Sure, the sneezing eases up. But instead, I transform into a zombie with the cognitive speed of a half-broken Roomba. Do I want to be a sniffling mess or a drooling nap monster? Choices, choices.

Honestly, I’ve come to accept my new identity. I’m not Mimi, psychologist, writer. No, I’m a creature: the itchy, sweaty, sneezing cryptid of New York. Forget Bigfoot. Come find me with a box of tissues and antihistamines. I’ll be there in the corner, hissing at flowers and dust motes, daring someone to “Bless me” one more time.

Maybe that’s the real superpower. Teaching others that sometimes you just don’t need to say anything. Just hand me the tissues and step back before the next hurricane hits.