Nov 1, 2021 3 min read

I hurt my nose, and I blame the weather. The reason that autumn is at fault for my most recent injury is an odd one, coldness. Bear with me. All will be revealed.

The other day, it was 40-something degrees, and I shimmied into a hoodie with my glasses on. This was a mistake. The tight-knit poly blend pushed the glasses into my pug-like proboscis and smooshed my nose. At one point, when my face was still engulfed in the darkness of the black hoodie, the nose pad (that plastic, oval piece that secures your glasses to your nose) went up a nostril. It was the sort of injury that caused friends and family to lament, “Only you.”

My right nostril is damaged from my hoodie accident. I can’t even scrunch up my nose the way you do when you smell something bad, or when someone has asked you an uncomfortable question.

When you bang your shin into the coffee table, you notice that you keep injuring it again, over and over. That’s happening with my nose. You don’t realize how often you touch your face unless it hurts, and my face hurts.

Side note: I am reminded of that childhood taunt, “Does your face hurt? Because it’s killing me!” You know some uncle or granddad passed that pithy, little poisoned barb on to unsuspecting children, and the kids, no doubt, repeated it.

Public Service Announcement: Hey kids, no matter how many times Grandpa asks, never pull his finger.

But I digress, like I do. Since the spring of 2019, I’ve learned a lot about my face. I was forced to stare my own visage in various Zoom meetings. Over the last couple of months, I learned all the best camera angles to minimize my double chin (always point the camera lens down from above and never up from below).

Zoom has taught me that I touch my face a lot. Thanks to this intrusive new technology, we’re all spending too much time staring at our own appearances.

The tech is at its most abhorrent when I use “speaker view.” My head overwhelms the screen. My audience is given the “full Jabba the Hut” experience. “Solo, ma kee chee zay.”

I did a couple of comedy gigs on Zoom. Throughout the whole show, I was busy gazing at my own appearance. Instead of concentrating on jokes, I’d notice a stray eyebrow hair that stuck out of my forehead like an alien antenna. I wanted to pluck it during the punchline.

I am constantly touching my face. During meetings, my coworkers know when I’ve lost interest. In poker parlance, “I have a tell.” I’d rest my hand on my chin, or, when someone else was droning on endlessly, I’d run my fingers through my sparse, gray hair.

I’m terrified that I’m going to sneeze. My sore snout scorns said sternutation. In other words, “achoo equals ouchie.”

Not that you would, but if you see me on the street, don’t touch my nose.