For the last two weeks -- maybe it was a karmic spank-back for the Spanx® episodes -- I’ve been suffering from the most persistent, painful booger of my life. To even call it a booger is to do it gross justice (as it were). It is more like two tentacular masses, one for each nostril, crustily coating my nasal cavities and emerging as true boogers only once they have been unceremoniously dislodged from their brothers-in-tissue, by a tissue, and extracted from their home.
Not that I feel bad for them. On the contrary, I have launched myriad attacks on the little buggers -- left and right (nostrils), from all angles, pinkies and index fingers alike. Sometimes, Kleenex; other times, it’s bare-knuckled brawling. The pinky nail has been my most potent weapon. (I highly recommend it as an alternative to the index finger.)
Now, I don’t have to tell you that there are few things in life as satisfying as a successfully picked nose. An itch scratched. A sinus cleared. Tangible rewards for the effort. I can’t shake the feeling, however, that while I win the occasional battle, I am losing the war. My victories have been tainted by the growing sense that this may be a war that cannot be won with conventional weapons. Far too often, I leave the battlefield empty-fingered. Just as often, I retreat with little but a bloody fingertip to show for my digging. Even my victories are pyrrhic: a nice, solid booger, under the nail… followed by a ghastly trail of blood. They’re like the aliens from Aliens. Kill us, they taunt, and pay the price, motherfucker.
On the bright side, they have not metastasized -- boogers cannot metastasize, according to webMD.com. But they do seem to have mutated into a highly evolved species of regenerative superbooger. Pick one, and another grows back -- bigger, badder, bloodier, and boogerier than the last. The insides of my nose have been left a raw, bloody mess.
I’m not sure how it started. It could have been the cold, dry winter air. Or maybe a virus of some sort, or my deviated septum. Regardless, it has to stop. And only self-restraint will stop it. I hereby resolve -- my New Year’s Resolution, nine days late -- to cease and desist with all future picks in this particular booger war.
I am counting on my environment to provide backup. Tomorrow Winter on the Equator leaves for the equator. In winter. Homunculus and the rest of the Reilly family -- Mr. & Mrs. Reilly and Sister Homunculussa -- are heading to Costa Rica ("Coast of the Rica" en Americano) and the soothing humidity of the tropics. I make no guarantees, but I have a good ol’(factory) feeling that change is in the air. If I could smell right now, it would smell like victory.
Labels: bodily functions
