Ok, I admit it. Beneath this finely polished exterior of dignified grace lies a terrible secret - I am paranoid about boogies.
There are many terrible things in the world that impose themselves upon us on a daily basis everywhere we turn -- news of muggings, corporate greed, environmental woes, the economy, our increasingly aging population, rising insurance costs, political graft, and the paintings of Thomas Kinkaide. There is no escaping that smurfy little man.
There are deep psychosis of our society, manifestations of a culture gone astray, widening gulfs between the haves and have nots, blistering commentary from the left about the right, virulent commentary from the right about the left.
So why this obession with boogies?
I think it's because most everyone else I know doesn't even think about them. And yet, there they are, hiding in kleenex, regenerating in faces all over the world, in secret, hiding in plain sight. Well, hopefully, not always in plain sight. They are like rabid bats that no one thinks about - we all know they're out there, but we hope they stay in the dark and we really don't do anything about them until it's too late and there's one sitting there on your computer desk.
I am capable of handling all sorts of the nasty things that nature can throw at you. I have calmly held someone's head while they barfed, and not felt myself the least queasy. I am a responsible dog owner who happily cleans up after my pet, even when it's squishy and still warm. I can bandage a skinned knee, remove a splinter, clean a poopy diaper, or remove a tick with the best of them. But if there's a used kleenex in the vicinity, I am apt to lose my lunch.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the necessity of mucus.
I realize that without nose hairs and the body's capacity to keep the nasal membranes moist, we'dd be sucking up dirt like Hoovers. I appeciate the ingenuity of the human body, and have great respect for the average nose.
I just cannot abide the contents.
Once, in a job I have long since left, I sat across a conference table from a man who had a suspicious indication of possible boogieness in his left nostril. It's not like I actually saw a boogie, just that when he breathed, the left nostril pinched in slightly, as though it were blocked, while the right seemed to function normally. I do not remember the meeting we were in, or the color of his eyes, or frankly, even if he had eyes at all. He might have been Brad Pitt, or Cyclops. I only remember the scope of his left pinched-in nostril moving in and out, filling the entire frame of my memory, and even now, the thought of it makes me a little green.
Perhaps this is a manifestation of a deeper emotional problem on my part. Perhaps it would make a good study for a post-graduate student of psychology, or even of otolaryngology. Perhaps I am just hopelessly weird. But boogies to me are Satan's spawn, hiding in the caverns of our heads, just waiting to come out and spread evil like a plague.
Perhaps it is an obsession on a benign subject, to keep me from going completely nuts obsessing over much more dangerous ones.
Or perhaps they are just nasty little things and I simply cannot reconcile myself to them.
Handkerchiefs, or Booger Vaults, as someone close to me calls them, are a complete mystery to me. Who thought it was a good idea to embroider a piece of linen for the express purpose of containing bodily emissions that could be carried place to place in a pocket or purse, like a token of affection? Which brings to mind the image of a knight in shining armor, thundering into battle with his lady's hanky affixed to his spear.
God help me, all I can say is, I hope with all my imagination and heart that hanky was un-used.
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