There are many things I could blog about on this occasion. Drama at work (not mine, but mine to deal with). Emotional stability. Romantic interests. Some of the anit-gay comments made in my presence lately. How I nearly strangled the lady taking my order at Starbucks when she laughed at me. How she seemed to recognize that very real possibility. But no, I have something different planned.
We are going to talk about something very dear to all of us. Something very human. Something that connects all of humanity—even if you don’t want to admit it.
Noses. Snot. More specific, the act of picking said snot from said nose.
Whether you’re an eater (if you are, I still love you, but you need to get help), whether you’re a wiper under your car seat or a stick it behind your ear for later kind of indulger, all of us (okay, most of us) pick our noses.
When I catch kids picking their noses in class, I tell them they need to go to the bathroom or wait till they are driving in their car, and since they’re not old enough, they’ll just have to wait. To which my co-teacher always screams. She tends to go ballistic when she catches kids picking their noses. To which I’m always like, ‘Really? This is the battle you wanna pick (Pick!!!)?’ People pick their noses. Just yesterday, I was glancing (AKA staring and drooling) at this gorgeous, GORGEOUS, man in his super nice sports car (I’m sure it had a name, but if I knew it, I’d be straight). As I’m casually glancing, his finger comes up and slowly makes it way halfway to his brain. After I finished dying of laughter, I couldn’t help but find him even more adorable. No, I don’t have a nose picking fetish, and I don’t think it is sexy. However, I love things that bind us all together and bring us to equal playing fields (unless we’re talking about Socialism, then not so much).
In that vein, and in the vein of not having an ounce of self-preservation or respect, I have two stories to share with you. They’re probably funnier in person, or if you have a juvenile sense of humor, but whatever.
Years ago, I was just leaving one of my sessions of my ‘learn-not-to-be-gay’ therapy. I don’t remember the exact topic, but, whatever it was, I was a mess. A mess. We are talking sobbing so badly I could barely see to drive.
I stop at the stoplight at Wolf Ct. and 92nd Ave. Tears gushing from me, barely able to breathe from the sobs wracking my body (honestly, I’m not exaggerating here). Without even realizing it, my finger apparently decided to be as helpful as possible and see what morsels of grief it could retrieve from inside my skull.
You know those moments. You don’t know how or by whom, but you can feel eyes on you. Cautiously turning my head to the right, tears streaking down, shaking and trying to catch my breath, my knuckle trying shove past my nostril, I see two college age girls (beautiful ones) absolutely losing their shit as they were filled with hilarity at the red-headed mess beside them in the Dodge Dakota pickup truck.
The light turned green. Laughing, they zoomed off into whatever awaited them in their lives. The sobs that I thought had been tormenting my body gave way to the real definition of weeping as salt was poured into my wounds, and I realized once again, how much of a worthless pratt I really was.
Every once in awhile, that memory will creep up on me unbidden. Every time, I am left with my body in wracking sobs again. These times, with laughter, however.
This next story is from this year (as much as I’d like to said I’ve evolved, we all know I’d be lying).
There is a young new teacher at our school. So young she looks like one of the kids. However, she is gorgeous. Really. Wow. Anyhow, the two of us have become fairly decent work friends. She often asks my advice on classroom behavior management. The one thing I actually am pretty good at.
It was a day where the kids weren’t at school and teachers could work on their own things in their room. I guess I could have just said ‘teacher’s work day,’ but whatever.
Me, working on stuff at the computer. You know where my fingers are. No, not typing—at least not all of them. In the midst of a rather satisfying excavation, I glance up (again, feeling those eyes on my skin) out the window by my door that leads into the hallway. There is the gorgeous new teacher. Her eyes wide, as if she’d been caught doing something embarrassing. Face reddening, she turned and hastily made her way back to her room.
Cursing myself and my inability to ever be cool, I focused all my attention on my work, refusing to let my hands return to their safe place.
A few hours later, once again lost in my own little world, I feel the eyes upon my flesh yet again. Looking up, the poor beautiful teacher’s face turned bright red, and she once again escaped to her classroom in sympathetic shame—all before I could extricate my lodged appendage from its sheath.
I never did find out what she needed from me so badly. Nor have we ever discussed the incident(s).
All this to say:
Life is short, hard, and full of pain. Take joy and comfort where you can. Dig away, my friends. Dig away.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago