I recently returned from my annual long-weekend vacation to Ely, MN. This has led me to ponder my relationship to wilderness/lake/nature and why I will never be called an “outdoorsy gal.”
First of all, please understand that I do enjoy nature in general. Generally, I do love jumping in the lake on a hot day or the feel of sunshine and a light breeze. Animals and plants are interesting to me. But this love is highly conditional. In my youth, the conditions were simple – as long I was not attacked by a bear or eaten alive by mosquitoes, all was right with the world. Now that I am an adult, I have developed a condition that has upset the balance: seasonal allergies.
I believe that I have been blessed with basically good health for my entire life. Occasionally I suffer from a cold or flu, but nothing worse. I was therefore unprepared for the bizarre onslaught of symptoms that began to appear in the warmer months of MN. In many ways, they mirrored a cold – stuffy nose, sneezing, sore throat, etc. The symptom that tipped me off to the fact that I might be dealing with a different beast altogether was the unprovoked eye-watering.
The first instance I can remember of non-emotional crying was while I was out for a friend’s birthday to a German bar for polka dancing. It was April, and the MN climate was starting to warm. Please note that at this time (the early 2000’s) MN had yet to enact its total public smoking ban. Also, the dance floor was located in the enclosed basement of the restaurant, making ventilation a slight issue.
At the time, I was in my early 20’s and still suffered under the delusion that I needed to look attractive in order to have a good time. I was dressed up in a cute but somewhat sexy top and the fancy jeans I had purchased on my trip to London. I wore extra make-up and was ready to polka.
About one hour into the festivities, I was standing by the edge of the dance floor chatting with some friends and trying to look cool when my eyes started to itch and burn. I tried blinking and rubbing my eyes to see if I had just caught some random chemical spray, but nothing helped. I looked around me through my bleary vision and noticed that no one else seemed to be suffering as I was. Pretty soon tears started running down my face and my friends started to become concerned. I assured them that I wasn’t becoming emotional over the upcoming performance of the Chicken Dance, but I knew something wasn’t right.
I retreated to the bathroom to assess the damage. It wasn’t too bad, but we didn’t stay too much longer after that. I was fine once we left the building, and I didn’t think too much more about it until the next time it happened later that summer. At first I was perplexed; I had no idea what was happening. I have never worn contact lenses, I do not wear a lot of eye makeup and am not fond of putting things near or into my eyes. It was not until one of my kind coworkers mentioned that she had acquired allergies as an adult that I began to suspect the true culprit.
All of a sudden, it was as if the universe fell into place; all of my mysterious “summer colds” could now be explained! My total nasal congestion that accompanied every visit to my aunt and uncle’s cat-inhabited house could be categorized! I could now join the elite group of people known as “seasonal allergy sufferers!” For a brief shining moment, I felt cool, popular and understood. Then, the disgusting tear and snot filled reality hit me like a hard pollen-filled blast of “fresh” air: I needed to find a cure.
I scanned through my usual source of medical wisdom, WebMD.com, for treatments. Many of my childhood friends were allergy victims, and I could recall their stories of “allergy testing” and “allergy shots” that sent chills down my spine due to my abject fear of needles. Therefore, I did what I usually do in the face of medical conundrums: self-diagnose. After minutes of deliberation, I was able to determine that the cause of my allergies were three main culprits: pollen, cats and cigarettes.
The first cause is pretty generic, but the last two were downright puzzling. First of all, I grew up with cats. I spent a great deal of time at houses with cats, and my family owned a cat for several years in my youth. Yet, whenever I spend more than one day at my aunt and uncle’s house, I find myself completely congested. Perhaps it is breed specific to Siamese cats. The final cause, cigarettes, is also bizarre. I grew up spending a great deal of time around my favorite cigarette smoker, my grandma. I even inherited her tobacco/nicotine-stained 1987 Chevy Celebrity as my first car and never shed a tear. Now, I can hardly spend more than two minutes in the presence of second-hand smoke before my eyes are running like faucets. Growing up is hard to do, indeed.
As for cures, I have found that Claritin (or its generic versions) is very effective for a non-drowsy option. The only downside to this treatment is that it seems to sap every ounce of personality from my body. All I want to do is sit and stare at things. This is OK when I’m at the lake because I can sit in a deck chair and stare at the water while working on my tan (or burn). This is NOT acceptable when I am at work staring at my stapler for 10 minutes.
I have heard that children who grow up with parents who are clean-freaks (i.e. constantly dusting, vacuuming, etc.) are more likely to have allergies. Obviously, my parents did me a favor by allowing me to grow up with dust, pollen, dander and other allergens, but I cannot figure out what has happened since. My world certainly has not become cleaner; housekeeping is not my forte. I can only surmise that it is some kind of cosmic or divine vengeance on me for being too smug towards my allergy-afflicted friends of my childhood. Either that or someone really wants me to know that air conditioning is better than fresh air, dogs are better than cats and drinking is a better vice than smoking. It’s just tough love, I suppose.
Showing posts with label snot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snot. Show all posts
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Noses - Post 3 of the "picking" series
OK, first of all, try and withhold your initial disgust and revulsion to the title of this entry. I have no intention of regaling you with a tale of nose-goblins and how to find them. My title was chosen because I felt that the “picking” series needed a third and final entry to be complete, and this entry does pertain a little bit to noses and nose-blowing habits.
Now that I have allayed your fears, I will proceed. Today’s inspiration came from my recent sinus infection and a conversation that happened between me and my family. Basically, it consisted of my brother and I reminiscing about the nose-blowing drama of our youth. Before I dive into that can of worms, perhaps I should share a little bit more about one of my idiosyncratic tendencies.
Since early childhood, I have harbored a strong aversion to touching substances that are slimy, sticky or of undeterminable origin. This manifested itself in various ways in my youth, especially in pre-school.
My first example involves paste. I’m referring to regular white Elmer’s paste that comes in the little plastic jars that have lids with the sticks attached. For some reason, this substance has been deemed acceptable for use by small children, most likely because it is non-toxic and children have a tendency to consume art supplies. This paste has the consistency of non-greasy butter and there are frequently chunks of more solid material mixed in with the creamier substance.
Apparently, when I was presented with paste to be used in arts and crafts, I outright refused to touch it. I was (and still am) a very stubborn person when faced with uncomfortable situations. In order to assuage my fears and encourage my creativity, the teacher came up with a solution. I was given a wet wash cloth to keep next to me at all times so that I could take a small dab of paste, smear it on my paper and immediately wipe off my fingers. I have obviously held on to some part of this behavior as anyone who has seen me eat food without utensils can attest. I would definitely not survive on a desert island without several tons of paper towels and napkins.
My second example relates to the rite of passage completed by all 5-year olds of making their mother a handprint picture. It is usually done in finger paints and is accompanied by a touchingly sappy poem reminding mothers that someday this cute little hand will grow up to be large and unattractive. I am the oldest child in my family, which means most major milestones were new and unexpected for me. When I encountered this handprint/fingerpaint ritual, I was troubled. I expect that my teacher was also perturbed as she did not wish to seem a failure and deny my mother this precious artifact.
By way of a compromise, I agreed to have my hand traced in pen. As the years passed and my brothers reached this milestone, they proved not to be as squeamish as I. My mother likes to bring out the three hands as proof that I am far more neurotic than most people realize.
I am not certain exactly what caused this aversion to touching non-solids, but I have a theory. Anyone who has spent time around toddlers recognizes the fact that their faces are often full of boogers. This is just a fact – kids attract germs and they lack the ability to clean themselves and rid themselves of their slime. One of the tricks parents teach their children to combat this occurrence is nose-blowing. Unfortunately, this habit is hard to learn and often leads to a different and more disgusting alternative: nose picking.
My own mother was strongly against nose picking. She was also against runny noses and sniffling. Honestly, if you had asked her 25 years ago to name the noises that annoyed her most, it would have been kids sniffling, my dad chewing and my dad snoring. I know the last two still bother her, but as she hasn’t had to listen to the first one for a while, she may have forgotten. This aversion strengthened her resolve to make us blow our noses on a regular basis. Whenever we would give a tiny snot-tinged sniffle she would come at us with a tissue, push it in our face and command, “BLOW!”
I wish I could say that this method worked. It should have worked. However, my brother and I are strange creatures. We rebelled against this seemingly straightforward and well-intentioned plan. Here is why: we were wussy kids with low pain thresholds and we let our congestion level go too far. Knowing my mother’s low tolerance for sniffles, we would endeavor to hide our stuffiness and pretend we were free and clear. This kept the tissue at bay temporarily, but it led to bigger problems. By the time my mom would catch on, our sinuses were so full that only high-powered hurricane level nose blowing would loosen and bring forth the detritus. Anyone who has attempted this kind of procedure knows that it usually has one major and painful side effect that involves ear popping.
This result was so painful that my brother and I avoided nose-blowing at all costs. This was shortsighted to be sure, but our young minds were not yet powerful enough to understand the cyclical nature of our dilemma. My mother, always a resourceful woman, retained one last weapon to use in her quest to slay the nose-goblins: the snot-sucker. I have no idea where this device originated, but I suspect it was sent home from the hospital after one of our births. It was a bit like a tiny turkey baster with a much smaller nozzle. It functioned largely the same way – by squeezing the rubber container, and releasing it with the nozzle in a child’s nose, the resulting suction could pull out even the most stubborn of snots. It was truly effective, but always a last resort. Needless to say, my brother and I saw a lot of this contraption.
My purpose for this story is to explain the after effect of the snot-sucker. As you can probably guess, the user was left with a rubber container full of child-boogers. It was not exactly a pleasant visual or tactile experience to clean. Not that I had to clean it myself, but I saw plenty of it in my days, and I believe that the memory of it contributed somewhat to my overall fear and dislike of all things bearing a likeness to its consistency.
To conclude, I can proudly say that my brother and I are both now fully capable of handling our own nose-blowing and that it is done in a timely manner, my mother still has the snot-sucker tucked away somewhere ready for the next generation of rugrats, and I still have no intention of ever touching paste or fingerpaint.
Now that I have allayed your fears, I will proceed. Today’s inspiration came from my recent sinus infection and a conversation that happened between me and my family. Basically, it consisted of my brother and I reminiscing about the nose-blowing drama of our youth. Before I dive into that can of worms, perhaps I should share a little bit more about one of my idiosyncratic tendencies.
Since early childhood, I have harbored a strong aversion to touching substances that are slimy, sticky or of undeterminable origin. This manifested itself in various ways in my youth, especially in pre-school.
My first example involves paste. I’m referring to regular white Elmer’s paste that comes in the little plastic jars that have lids with the sticks attached. For some reason, this substance has been deemed acceptable for use by small children, most likely because it is non-toxic and children have a tendency to consume art supplies. This paste has the consistency of non-greasy butter and there are frequently chunks of more solid material mixed in with the creamier substance.
Apparently, when I was presented with paste to be used in arts and crafts, I outright refused to touch it. I was (and still am) a very stubborn person when faced with uncomfortable situations. In order to assuage my fears and encourage my creativity, the teacher came up with a solution. I was given a wet wash cloth to keep next to me at all times so that I could take a small dab of paste, smear it on my paper and immediately wipe off my fingers. I have obviously held on to some part of this behavior as anyone who has seen me eat food without utensils can attest. I would definitely not survive on a desert island without several tons of paper towels and napkins.
My second example relates to the rite of passage completed by all 5-year olds of making their mother a handprint picture. It is usually done in finger paints and is accompanied by a touchingly sappy poem reminding mothers that someday this cute little hand will grow up to be large and unattractive. I am the oldest child in my family, which means most major milestones were new and unexpected for me. When I encountered this handprint/fingerpaint ritual, I was troubled. I expect that my teacher was also perturbed as she did not wish to seem a failure and deny my mother this precious artifact.
By way of a compromise, I agreed to have my hand traced in pen. As the years passed and my brothers reached this milestone, they proved not to be as squeamish as I. My mother likes to bring out the three hands as proof that I am far more neurotic than most people realize.
I am not certain exactly what caused this aversion to touching non-solids, but I have a theory. Anyone who has spent time around toddlers recognizes the fact that their faces are often full of boogers. This is just a fact – kids attract germs and they lack the ability to clean themselves and rid themselves of their slime. One of the tricks parents teach their children to combat this occurrence is nose-blowing. Unfortunately, this habit is hard to learn and often leads to a different and more disgusting alternative: nose picking.
My own mother was strongly against nose picking. She was also against runny noses and sniffling. Honestly, if you had asked her 25 years ago to name the noises that annoyed her most, it would have been kids sniffling, my dad chewing and my dad snoring. I know the last two still bother her, but as she hasn’t had to listen to the first one for a while, she may have forgotten. This aversion strengthened her resolve to make us blow our noses on a regular basis. Whenever we would give a tiny snot-tinged sniffle she would come at us with a tissue, push it in our face and command, “BLOW!”
I wish I could say that this method worked. It should have worked. However, my brother and I are strange creatures. We rebelled against this seemingly straightforward and well-intentioned plan. Here is why: we were wussy kids with low pain thresholds and we let our congestion level go too far. Knowing my mother’s low tolerance for sniffles, we would endeavor to hide our stuffiness and pretend we were free and clear. This kept the tissue at bay temporarily, but it led to bigger problems. By the time my mom would catch on, our sinuses were so full that only high-powered hurricane level nose blowing would loosen and bring forth the detritus. Anyone who has attempted this kind of procedure knows that it usually has one major and painful side effect that involves ear popping.
This result was so painful that my brother and I avoided nose-blowing at all costs. This was shortsighted to be sure, but our young minds were not yet powerful enough to understand the cyclical nature of our dilemma. My mother, always a resourceful woman, retained one last weapon to use in her quest to slay the nose-goblins: the snot-sucker. I have no idea where this device originated, but I suspect it was sent home from the hospital after one of our births. It was a bit like a tiny turkey baster with a much smaller nozzle. It functioned largely the same way – by squeezing the rubber container, and releasing it with the nozzle in a child’s nose, the resulting suction could pull out even the most stubborn of snots. It was truly effective, but always a last resort. Needless to say, my brother and I saw a lot of this contraption.
My purpose for this story is to explain the after effect of the snot-sucker. As you can probably guess, the user was left with a rubber container full of child-boogers. It was not exactly a pleasant visual or tactile experience to clean. Not that I had to clean it myself, but I saw plenty of it in my days, and I believe that the memory of it contributed somewhat to my overall fear and dislike of all things bearing a likeness to its consistency.
To conclude, I can proudly say that my brother and I are both now fully capable of handling our own nose-blowing and that it is done in a timely manner, my mother still has the snot-sucker tucked away somewhere ready for the next generation of rugrats, and I still have no intention of ever touching paste or fingerpaint.
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