Hiccup I had a meeting in San Francisco last week.  I arrived at the building after walking around in the rain for about an hour with my pulled back hair slick and matted down such that I looked like a baby seal.  A greater part of my day thus far had been spent taking deep, deliberate breaths as I tried to remedy a persistent case of the hiccups.  I approached the door, which usually opens automatically, but today remained sealed shut.  I pulled the handle with no result.  Two men on the other side of the door faced the same problem.  They, too, tried opening it, but to no avail.  The modern convenience of door-opening technology was smiting us all.  As I let go of the handle, the two men finally got the door open, stepping aside to let me in.  Wet, and flustered by the stubborn door, I sighed and said “Thanks,” then, facing the dry men, proceeded to loudly hiccup.  They laughed and walked past me.  The hiccup echoed in the lobby, stinging my ears and I cursed myself.