"Can't Breathe"

Before we curb behaviour, we dare to push limits, revealing our boundaries through action.

Note: Last week’s, I Chuck E Choose You, was a block quote (just like this one) from today’s essay that got a little crazy. As I edited, more and more bubbled to the surface, and suddenly I was describing Chuck E as a young Dad with dyslexia trying to hold it down at the Children’s Rat City Casino.

The piece revealed itself as a standalone. And in younger sibling fashion, it demanded its own airtime (unique URL and bedroom) and resents the parallels I’m about to draw.

But if you bust out your Undercover D magnifying glass, you’ll find that this essay falls under the same theme as Chuck E—and as it so happens, it’s all about doubling down. So, let’s keep trotting down the trail we laid, shall we?

Away from the arcade, I filled the space between meals and snack time with things like: pretending I am a horse (NOT a prelude to any adult "pony play"; conning my sister into catching and bottling house flies for my careful observation (like a trailer park Jane Goodall with a notable interest in vermin); and spending too much quality time with my soother(s), more formally known as ‘The Silicone Nip of the Free Republic’. 

My devotion to the soother (AKA “pacifier”, “dootsie”, or “binky” if you’re a Bhad Bhabie) put any hobbyist toddler in the little leagues.

Like a 1960’s alcoholic, my collection of soothers were hidden throughout the house for easy access.

I had silicone friends hidden under pillows and inside empty cereal boxes and toilet tanks. On my person, I was packing more than one soother—in more than one crevasse—at any given time.

In the event of a sudden, catastrophic emergency, I had enough pacifiers strapped to my small body to stock the shelves of a dozen local mercantiles.

A snapshot of my four-year-old self would show soothers strung around each finger, a double pacie in my mouth, and on special occasions: one lodged up my nose.

The nostril soother is a move that separates the boys from men. The lasses from the ladies. In fact, if you turn to page 214 in the Royal Dootsie Handbook you may hear of this move alluded to, but never described in full. 

The soother up the nostril—while riveting—until this very moment, has been considered too dangerous for print.

But on a festive afternoon when my parent’s had company over, I decided to boldly parade my full soother collection. It was Vanity Fair September issue, and I was presenting my trunk show.

To the delight of onlookers, I was sporting ol’ faithfuls, fan favourites, and a couple of new arrivals that even I had yet to explore. There was soother bling adorning each finger, two on active mouth duty, and one very celebratory dootsie up the you-know-what.

I was performing the toddler triple axel (mouth-mouth-nostril).

As the 1990's folklore goes, mid-catwalk, a voice called out from the back of the room.

"Hey Grace, why don't you have a soother up your other nostril?". 

The crowd gasped.

My performance had been called into question.

The room anxiously jostled their focus between “the voice” and myself. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly theme song whistled around the room.

Everyone took pause. 

Slowly and without breaking eye contact, I removed the soothers one by one from my mouth. The release of each silicone nip created a “pop” sound that echoed for a country mile.

With a cool confidence beyond my years, I spoke just two words: 

“Can't breathe”.

While I had successfully carried out the soother trifecta (two mouth, one nostril) “can’t breathe” showed that I had previously attempted something more: the double nostril.

The double nostril is a move so dangerous that it could burn hole right through this page (if this book ever gets published)! It’s a move so wicked that your own Mama would throw you out of the house for even suggesting it! It’s a move so Xtreme that it’d turn your Hell’s Angel Uncle Sid back into a thumb sucker!

In that moment, I revealed how far I pushed it before turning back around. And it was just shy of ceasing the whistling winds of human breaf.

Before we learn to act in moderation, we’re soaking up as much self-indulgent life as we can. Whether it’s a romance with a fictional rat or a creepy fixation with fake nipples, we are doubling down on our own brand.

We have total disdain for mediocrity and onions—we haven’t developed a palate for either.

Fucks Given: zero.