The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Snotcicle

"Invalid Entry" 

There's nothing beautiful about it, I think. It is one of the weaker designs in the human being in terms of aesthetics. The stomach flips, the stomach churns, and all because people have this inability to keep it where it should be. The sound of a throat clearing, the quiet sniffles in the library, the lady who dabs at her nose in a genteel fashion which never achieves what it's meant to, all make me sick.

You can't feel this way when you have a child. You can't erupt like Vesuvius when they spread their sickness and love all over your bare arm. What you do is pretend it's something else, anything else to keep you from giving in to the reflex in your throat. The colour, the texture, the sounds...I don't understand how this doesn't upset every single person on the planet. Cats with distemper, babies who are teething, people in the middle of a crying jag, just need to go away. Don't come at me when you're sobbing, attempting to use my hair or shoulder as a kleenex. I'll knock you down, I swear I will.

I have let M. cry on my hair, though. I also ended up with some of his northern hemisphere viscous goodness in my mouth once, and I'm proud to say I didn't faint, scream or vomit. I didn't tell him, though. He most certainly would have done one if not all of those things if I had. The only thing which lets you tolerate the mere sight, sound or flavour of it is love. If you don't have that, you're definitely going to lose control of the gravity in your innards.

Once, I saw a guy and his girlfriend coming out of his house, heading toward their car. He sneezed, and there was something dangling from his face. I was twelve, and typing it now is making me look at the door to the bathroom. Just a minute...*concentrate*...okay. His girlfriend did the whole sympathetic 'oh, you poor baby' thing while he stood frozen in the driveway, likely mortified and humiliated while she just stood there, watching. I tell you, she must have really loved him. After a few seconds, she finally realized that she should help him out and went into the house in search of a tissue. What I did was fall to the sidewalk and put my head between my knees. I can still see him now, and I'm still disgusted by the thought of it. Someone was with me, then, but I can't for the life of me remember who. I do remember they were laughing maniacally at me. Oh, wait! It was my cousin Michael. Yes, that's right because he was a hockey player at the time, and let's just say that they don't have much problem with that sort of thing, and they don't feel a need for tissues.

For me, it's on par with the off-putting appearance of blood, except blood's a far prettier colour.

The same year as Driveway Man I was accosted by a developmentally challenged kid named Jeremy on the school playground. He had an issue with lack of tissue and was chasing after all the girls who had assembled by the back door. Of course, I ended up being the human kleenex, and as much as I wanted to punch the kid, I couldn't because of the whole 'mental problem' thing he had working for him. I remember crying a little, turning my back toward the teacher on duty who was as amused as he was disgusted. I was sent to the bathroom to clean up, and I steadfastly refused to do it myself. I told the teacher that the kid shouldn't have been allowed to do that, that he should have been more closely monitored because obviously he wasn't capable of behaving himself. Prima donna in a slick and slippery grey coat. So, another teacher had to clean me up as I stood in the bathroom, raging quietly in front of the mirror, watching her try to stifle a giggle. I still think Jeremy should have said sorry.

So, I guess lunch is out, now.