An Ode to Boogers

I'm cheating a bit -- this is something I wrote about three years ago, but I still find it terribly, terribly amusing.

No one over the age of nine admits to any interest in the subject of snot, but it's there. Impossible to ignore. And people don't ignore it, you see, they just pretend to. Everyone has a story about snot, though, once you can get them talking.

The greatest thing about this omnipresent substance is the fact that it is universally known as "snot". Doctors, other health practitioners, and people who are trying to sound formal and dignified will sometimes call it mucus, if they deign to refer to it at all. But you know that they are privately mentally labelling it "snot". Even better in its' solid state: "boogers." Before you roll your eyes and move on, I want to know honestly what you call them. If you have any other, more adult-sounding name in common usage in your region, please, let me know. I bet you don't. You may have stopped calling them boogers when you were in elementary school, but I know what word you're thinking. Nyah nyah nyah.

I was in a staff meeting last week; one of those terrible half-day meetings where everyone has to Discuss Their Goals and listen to Motivational Speeches. The one advantage was that we were lunching first at a quite posh restaurant in the Charles Hotel in Harvard Square. Now, I work for an academic institution. I wear khaki shorts and clogs to work, the guys in Financial Administration sing along to Annie Lennox, and my co-worker Carol has a Scully X-Files action figure pinned to the wall above her desk. But we were all on our best behavior, sitting up straight and trying not to fidget; acting the part of proper office professionals. When it happened. I was breathing through my nose and I could feel it. There was, for demonstrated lack of a better term, a booger in my nose. It was not entirely blocking my left nasal passage but it was -there- and I could distinctly feel it.

I sniffed lightly. Nothing. I reach in my lap for my ... cloth napkin. No. You cannot, absolutely positively, no matter what, blow your nose into a cloth napkin. I slowly raise one hand to my face and, with one finger lightly scratch the top of my nose, while blocking the rest of my nose from view. One swift nose-blow into the air. Nothing. Maybe I can ignore it, I think. But I can't, because there is the risk that it will dislodge on its own and make an appearance outside my nose. I will be blithely eating my grilled chicken and mandarin orange and there will be a (you-know) hanging out of my nose.

My eyes scan the restaurant briefly, looking for a restroom. This is not the kind of restaurant one wanders around in search of the facilities. Which, along with our waitress, are not readily visible.

Someone asks me a question. I don't hear them. "Oh, yes! Yes, the upgrade went well, very few problems, really, things have been fine, yes."

I sense that I am being incoherent, but I am terribly distracted at this moment.

I think about waiting for everyone to be blinking or looking away, and just picking it out. Gross, yes, but it seems like a viable alternative at this point. But no, I just can't. I have a friend whose boyfriend picks his nose. He seems to do it subconsciously so I try not to judge too harshly. But he really goes at it, you see, we're talking second knuckle disappearing into the nasal cavity. His girlfriend calls it "digging for gold." I am not a miner.

The waitress appears. Oh, thank heavens. I ask after the restroom, she points me off. As I approach the door I'm mentally ticking off seconds, just a few seconds more and there will be paper towels and I'll be just fine again.

I open the door and step inside. The bathroom is lavishly decorated, in keeping with the rest of the hotel. I look to the sink area for the paper towels.
Thwarted again; there are little cloth towels, bundled, on two silver trays. No one is looking now, but I just can't bring myself to blow my nose in one of these immaculate white towels. I wait for a stall to free up. Please, I think, do not let this restroom be the first in America to premiere with cloth toilet paper.

But thankfully no; that is a dilemma for another day. Nose free of unwanted matter, I can return to my table.

J. couldn't believe that there isn't a more dignified medical term for "booger"; please, feel free to prove him right. Send me yer official mucus cluster terminology.

Monday 07 May, 11:45 PM