Early Sunday morning while my husband was still asleep, I stood in my kitchen staring down at the packet of sport gel lying on the counter. Old western shoot-out music played softly in the background.

I can do this, I told myself. I want to do this. I like gel. It’s yummy. It’s going to be the best thing ever.

I tear off the little top and sniff. Fruit like. I squeeze and watch the yellow-ish goop ooze out the top. Okay, don’t think about that. I put the open end in my mouth and swallow.

Oh, holy mother of God. It’s snot. It’s a big globule of boogers.

I take several gulps of diet soda to get it down. The packet is only one-third gone. I check the label. One serving per package.

Deep breath. Squeeze.

Ug...ga...blech...

More soda.

I look down at the still-not-empty foil pouch of Satan puss in my hand. Forget it. I toss the rest in the trash and grip the edge of the counter, willing my stomach to stop rolling.

It’s fine, I tell myself. Everything’s fine. I can still run. I’m okay.

More soda.

And then I do run. And then the weird thing happens. The Satan puss starts to work. I have more fuel, more energy. I feel stronger. My run goes smoother. I beat my goal time.

And all I can think is #@!*$&^@** !

I’m going to have to eat boogers! I’m going to have to eat them on a regular basis! And they’re not even MY boogers!

I slump defeated onto the couch.

If anyone knows a good way of eating boogers, er, sport gel, I’m listening.