Snot Enough

Some days I feel more handicapped than others. Today I feel like a rutabaga.

I’d been so fixated for so long on the prospect of needing someone else to wipe my ass* that a different loss snuck up on me from the other side: the ability to blow my nose.

The dilemma: What do you do when you’re home alone and that constant, annoying little tickle at the back of your throat turns into one of your scary protracted can’t-breathe coughing fits, which inevitably makes your eyes run with tears that burn like carbolic acid before merging with the torrents of snot streaming down your unshaven face, reminding you of how opossums drool profusely to deter predators?

The answer: You do the best you can. Which in this case meant swatting clumsily at the unsightly mess with a small forest’s worth of Kleenex and a washcloth. I could have just waited for Nicole to arrive, but it felt nasty on my face. Besides, the way I looked, she probably would have run screaming out the door.

Several hours later, alone once again, I’d almost recovered from the morning’s trauma when I felt the urge to sit down on the turlit, something I almost never do without assistance. I had another coughing jag while thus ensconced, but this one was mercifully brief - just long enough to imagine an Elvis-style checkout.

After I “dropped the kids at the pool” and had a refreshing tonic, I went to get up ... and couldn’t. I tried every approach I could think of (you might be surprised), but the situation seemed hopeless. I managed to get hold of my cell phone – which may or may not work in that bunker of a bathroom – and was about to call Dan when I decided to give it one last try.

I don’t know how it worked, but it did.

When Dan came home this evening, he wondered why I was lounging around in my bra and panties. I’m too tired to explain, I said; you’ll have to read about it on the blog.

* It hasn’t happened yet, but thanks for caring.