My friends want me to blog more, so I am. Even on my sick day. Happy now, miscreants!??
Today I took a sick day. I woke up and went to work and really thought I’d be fine. Despite my cocktail of OTC meds and coffee, I found myself calling rounds face-up from a make-shift bed I fashioned out of two wheelie chairs in the edit bay.
I made our sales lady, Cindy, feel my forehead (she threw in the cheeks — THE FACE ONES GAWD — for no extra cost) and she told me I was a hunka hunka burnin’ love, so, joints creaky and eyelids drooping, I went home.
Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what to do with myself. Sick days hold such hallowed ground in my memory, but what does an adult do on a sick day? I feel like I’ll go to a clinic this afternoon, I already ate soup and drank tea and I’m in my footie pajamas. I read the Internet and I can’t watch TV ’cause I don’t have cable. What’s left?
Jamie and I were talking about throwing up last night, and about well, “not making it,” and we tried to think of times that happened to us. I had a good one.
I was 14 and my mom, step-dad, brothers and I traveled down to Treasure Island, FL to visit our family friends Bob (crazy dad) and Josh (crazy BMX-racing son).
This was a vacation we took for several years, but this year was special. It would mark the beginning of my body rejecting um, puberty? It was the first of several months when I would get violently ill for an entire day, and it was not pretty.
I woke up like, the second morning there not feeling well. Josh had surrendered his bed and entire BMX boy room to me for our stay, and I decided to rest in bed that morning until I felt better. That didn’t happen.
Like a kick from a dream, I woke up in Josh’s bed, knowing I had to throw up.
[Quick Sidebar: The previous part of the post was written off of Codeine syrup and other drugs. The rest of this post involves me being heavily medicated.]
I rolled out from under the covers, dodged the edge of the bed and headed for the adjacent Boy Bathroom. Then, like lightening from the hand of Thor, I erupted. It was like Pompeii for the nauseated set. Nothing in that room was safe — and it had no where to run.
Bed? Puked on.
TV? Puked on.
Copious BMX Trophies? Covered with my noxious spew.
Everything in my wake had a new skin of regurgitated swordfish (I mean, probably, I have no clue what we ate that day) and in my imagination, I like to think I collapsed right then and there.
More likely, I continued to run to the bathroom, tears and other nasties streaming down my face, as EVERYONE ELSE burst into the room to just in time to hear me yell, “OH GOD SAVE ME,” as I plunged my head into the Juan.
Not only was this experience mortifying, but solidified me as the weirdest person during these trips. All of my future interactions for years to come would be preceded by my latent hesitation. “Oh god, I really hope they don’t think I’m gonna puke everywhere again. Should I tell them I’m fine? I guess they know. But what if I DO surprise puke again? Oh no, oh no, someone has addressed me. Quick. Words,” said my inner monologue.
“Do dah do dooo whatchu guys do-aaannn?” said my real life voice.
The point is, now, as an adult with no puke (and nothing to puke on) I feel at a loss. Where do I put my hands? When I decide, I’ll let you know.