So it’s right freezing in our house, because…well…we live in Canada. It’s really cold inside, but I refuse to turn on the heater before October (November would be ideal, but, well…we live in Canada) in what is officially the most ridiculous moral stand ever known to Earth. It’s like people in Arizona who won’t turn on the A/C before May—I’ve always thought that was so ridiculous because what would the Pioneers think? We’re shunning all this amazing technology—we have the power to be cool when it’s sweltering outside, and we ignore it? I bet the pioneers would give their best oxen for a good ol’ blast of A/C.
But anyway, I can mock the air conditioning moralists all I want, but now I’m one of them.
As I type this with my shivering fingers, it is 60 degrees in our house. I’ve given myself a cold. I wake up every morning with a stuffier nose than the day before, and it’s especially bad because they aren’t even the good, dry, ultra-pickable boogers—they’re wet and slimy and my fingernails can’t get a grip on them no matter which angle I try. Of course, they won’t come out by blowing, either—I ruptured my left eardrum trying. That was painful.
I’m not shy about picking my nose. When I was dating Poor Kyle, after we had already come to terms with farting (ugly word!) in front of each other, we had a conversation about nose-picking. It went something like this:
Me: I have a booger that I need to pick. Do you mind?
Me: Yes, really.
Kyle: But isn’t that…like…not allowed?
Me: Well, my parents told me not to when I was a little kid, if that’s what you mean. But I’ve been breaking that rule for years now. I mean, it’s not like I pick them and EAT them—I stopped doing that after Kindergarten. And I don’t normally do it in front of people, but I figure we’ve already seen each other at our worst, and this one booger is really annoying…
Kyle: Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s all right with me.
Me: Don’t you pick your nose?
Kyle: Yeah, but…I didn’t think you were a nose-picker. It’s not very…ladylike.
Me: Well, you can date someone else if you want. I mean, if this is gonna be a deal-breaker, you better tell me now. But I’ll be a die-hard nose picker til the day I…die. If I had to choose between you and the boogers, I’d pick the boogers.
Kyle: That is the most amazingly romantic sentiment a woman has ever told me. I have never felt so loved in all my life. MARRY ME!
(Okay, not really about that last bit—in fact, it’s a miracle we’re still together at all, with the way I was slash am.)
But the point of all this is that I’m not—and never have been—shy about my boogers. Everybody has boogers. Everybody picks them. It’s a worldwide favourite pastimes. If there is one element of humanity that is a cross-continental constant, regardless of race, gender, poverty, or wealth…it’s boogers. The village people in the South Pacific have boogers just the same as elitist socialites on Fifth Avenue in New York City.
We all have boogers. And we all pick them.
Anyway, the point of all this is to say that it’s cold in my house, and I’m in a bad way.
And how is your Monday looking?