You know that story about you that your sister just can't seem to keep from telling absolutely everyone she meets? That story that you wrote a personal narrative on during your junior year of high school when given the challenge to write "The Best Story Ever" by your English teacher, and subsequently won the prize of a five pound chocolate bar? The one that you sent in as your admissions essay for early decision at your choice university, then hurriedly attempted to have it exchanged for another more politically correct piece to no avail?
Yes? No? Well, this is that story, whether you know it or not.
I was a fairly crafty child. Those little briefcases filled with cheap markers, crayons, colored pencils, scissors, and other colorful, mess-demanding devices were staple gifts for me come the holidays. I'd tote it around, wads of scrap paper from my grandmother's kitchen clenched in my other hand, as I left a wake of absolute destruction in my path. Most of the time I am sure that my parents appreciated when I chose to indulge my pudgy little hands into something that wasn't wet and couldn't get any color from the rainbow on our furniture.
Most of the time.
One particular craft that I adored was melting perler beads into fun little shapes. My sister and I had a couple boxes of beads that we had accumulated along with many plastic patterns that allowed for the creatively challenged to haphazardly toss beads onto them and still end up with something remotely attractive. During the spring of 1995 my sister and I sat down in our bedroom with the lot of beads and templates to chose our designs. I picked out and umbrella and she, well, no one really cares what she picked out. This story is about me.
Actually, I don't remember what she was working on. The impending trauma must have washed away my memory of anything that doesn't closely pertain to my side of the story. Sorry, Lindsey.
As I slid each bead onto its spoke I began to see the umbrella coming together; The handle forming a curve that would fit the tiniest of plastic, two-dimensional hands so well. Suddenly, I notice something: these beads were all fitting quite perfectly in their places on the patterns, and they appear to be just the size to sit comfortably in my nose. I pick one out of the bucket, examine it briefly as to confirm my suspicions, and place it into my right nostril.
For a short moment I sat there with a smug smile on my face. I was right! The bead fit! Ha, I showed you, no one ever. Satisfied with the results of my bead-to-nostril size test I reached my finger back up and began to prod at the plastic cylinder, but it wouldn't move. My fingertip pushed the bead in slightly farther, which disallowed me the ability to get on either side of it. Horrified, I turn to my sister as tears began to slide down my cheeks. "It's stuck!" I wail.
She looks at me first with confusion, as she wasn't aware of the current nostril-bead situation, then with more wonder at why I would do such a thing. We both get up and track down my mother, who was doing the dishes in the kitchen. "I got a bead stuck in my nose!" I scream as my sister snickers behind me.
"Come on," my mother directs as she leads me by the hand to the bathroom, my sister tagging along the whole while. She stands me in front of the toilet and tells me to plug my left nostril and blow into the toilet. Blubbering, I lean over the toilet and began snorting in a manner that can only be described as a horse trying to viciously clear peanut butter from its nose. After a minute of intense grunting I notice a tiny speck of blood hit the toilet water.
Oh no, I'm thinking as my sobs get heavier. Oh no, oh god, oh no. My sister leans over and confirms the fate I had expected by whispering, "You're gonna die."
"I don't wanna die! I don't wanna diiiiiie!" I'm screaming and looking up at my mother, as my finger still sits firmly pressed against my left nostril and a thin line of blood trickles down above my lip.
"You're not going to die! Keep snorting!" my mother hollers as my sister is practically in stitches on the floor behind her. "You, stop it!" she directs my sister.
There's blood, I'm thinking. There's blood, -snort- and it's stuck, -snort- and I did this, -snort- and Lindsey said I'm gonna die. -snort- Why would I do-
Plop.
There it was, sitting in the bottom of the toilet bowl among the minuscule amount of blood from my nostril-meats. Silence fell over the bathroom as I look up and let out a small, relieved, and utterly surprised, "Oh."
I finished my umbrella, Lindsey finished whatever the heck she was working on, and our lives went on. She never misses an opportunity to tell everyone about the time her little sister almost "died" from sticking a bead up her nose, and I never hesitate to toss in the anecdote about how it was my admissions essay to Rochester Institute of Technology.
I was accepted, but I never did get the five pound chocolate bar back in high school. I'm still waiting, Mr. Herman.
