In my travels in, around, and out and about this fair city, I’ve noticed that quite a few rather ordinary events are heralded by a rush of wind. For instance, while standing on the platform waiting for the F train, I’ve learned that I do not have to stand at the very edge to monitor its approach, because about 30 seconds before it even appears, a whoosh of wind rushes down the tunnel and blows back my hair, supermodel-style. This not only boosts my sexiness but affords me adequate time to figure out what I’m going to yell as the train pulls in. Because, you see, if I’m alone on the platform, I am compelled to yell something nonsensical just because. (I will not tell you what I yell. Use your imagination, and then multiply that by a prime number, divide it by the word “jackass”, and raise it to the “nth” power.)
Another such event is the arrival of the elevator in my apartment building. Just like with the subway, its approach is marked by a whoosh of wind — here, vertical, up the elevator shaft (indulge my 12-year-old boy mentality and allow me to pause here to snicker at that word), as opposed to the horizontal whoosh in the subway — thus allowing me a few seconds to check my hair in the hallway mirror just opposite the elevator doors and thereby confirm that I am still the fairest of them all. (Or “of the mall”, as I used to think the phrase was, many years ago.)
What these two events have in common is that they both involve an instance of my having to endure a wait — an almost physical impossibility given my genetic lack of patience. Thus, the rush of wind signalling the end of that wait delights me so much that it almost makes the agonizing 15-minute or 15-second wait for the subway or elevator, respectively, bearable. Almost. I still fidget, tap my foot, drum my fingers, fiddle my faddle, sigh dramatically, and look at my watch, even if time is not of the essence.
This forces me to consider other ordinary events that I would like to see preceded by a rush of wind, just because I find waiting for them excruciating and feel I should be suitably rewarded for having endured them at all. Here is just a sampling:

  • The arrival of cash from an ATM
  • The placement of the food on my table at a restaurant
  • The expulsion of a newborn baby as I stand at the draped knees of a best friend who has just told me it’s my fault she’s pregnant because wasn’t I, after all, the one who introduced her to that cocksucker known as her husband anyway
  • Counting to 3 between pops while microwaving popcorn
  • The cessation of someone’s coughing in an otherwise quiet room
  • Wednesday night elimination results on Rock Star: INXS. (P.S. Go, Marty!)
  • Gaining access to a stall in a public rest room
  • The Big O (not Oprah and not (and for the record, I loathe the term “the Big O” but hate the word that begins with “O” just as much) (so I had to choose which one to use here, and this is what I chose, and now I finally know how Sophie must have felt)
  • Death