Snot-Nosed Horror

Just as group therapy was starting last night, I stood up to reach for the box of tissues, as I always do. “Are you like allergic to my office or something?” W, the T, asks me. I laugh, say, “Probably. I’m allergic to 63 other things so I’m sure there’s something in here that’s slowly killing me.”

Time passes. I’m sniffling and clutching a tissue to occasionally wipe my drippy nose. I look very attractive doing this.

Later: and now the attention is on me.

I’m talking; I can’t remember about what. I’m looking down because me making eye contact in these parts is about as common as the Pope playing beer pong at Mardi Gras. I wipe my nose. Apparently not good enough, because a little snot comes dripping out of my right nostril. And not the goopy snot. Like water snot. I am a leaky faucet. I look down at my shirt, and right before my very eyes, in between my boobs, I have an Oreo-sized snot blossom.

And everyone’s eyes are trained on me. Trained on the chick who can’t keep her snot in her nose or on her tissue. What am I, 5? And the room is silent! And that’s worse than everybody laughing because I know they’re trying not to laugh. Hot damn I’d be laughing hysterically if I wasn’t me, if I wasn’t frozen with snot-nosed horror.

“Um I umwhatwasIsaying,” I stammer. “Sorry, my nose is runny. Words. Clumsy remark.”

I pull my cardigan over my blooming booger. And blow my nose resolutely.