I called my mom recently on my walk from work to the train, and because she is who she is (and we, ahem, love her for it), she had to ask if I'd met anyone. Because, you know, despite the fact that I'd been sick as a dog for two weeks with something that resembled a feverish flu with a generous side helping of bronchitis and an endless flow of snot the color of a filthy fish tank, I was totally going to lots of speed dating events and had finally signed up for J-Date, the Leading Jewish Singles Network.
The call came to an end as I approached the platform to wait for my train and instead of any of the predictable salutations, ("Feel better!" or "I love you." or "Have a good night.") my mom told me to "Keep those eyes peeled for the right man!" which I know she meant affectionately, but still made me want to rip my uterus out so that she'd just leave me the fuck alone already. Instead, I said, "I always do!" before hanging up, blasting the volume on my iPod, and burying my head in a book. I know I'd just promised I'd keep my eyes peeled for Mr. Right Good Enough, but I was pretty sure that, as desperate as she is for me to meet someone anyone at all, the homeless man two seats over picking the filth out his hairy belly button was not what she had in mind.
Once on the train, I did what I always do: kept my eyes trained firmly on my book. Only I was having a hard time concentrating because my nose decided that exact moment was a good time to rid itself of the 17 gallons of snot it had been storing up. It was as though my face was New Orleans, my nasal cavities were the levees, and my sea-green snot was the storm surge. (Too soon?)
Anyway, I was sitting on the train and because for whatever reason I did not have even a single tissue with me (despite the fact that I was going through a box a day at work), I was forced to sniff loudly, compulsively, and completely obnoxiously for the entire thirty minute train ride. Eventually, even violent sniffing wasn't doing the job of vacuuming the snot back into my mouth, and I had no choice, but to wipe the dripping snot away from my nose with the back of my hand while wishing I'd worn long sleeves.
After wiping my hand clean on my jeans, I returned to my book for a few minutes until I noticed something glimmering in the light. A silver strand of hair from a unicorn's mane? A glistening icicle melting in the distance? A light from God and the heaven's above?
No. It was a four inch strand of shining snot swaying precariously from my nose - back and forth, back and forth, back and forth - with the rhythm of the train.
And standing right in front of me?
A very good looking, very well-dressed guy, with a very strong look of absolute disgust plastered on his very perfectly chiseled face. You know... Mr. Very Well Might Be Mr. Right.
So I did what any girl would do... Wiped the snot away with my bare forearm and quickly got off the train.
At the wrong stop.
Update: If you don't get the pigeon reference in the title, you're not a good blog reader. You can become a better one by going here to get the whole story.
