I’ve thrown up exactly four times in thirteen years. Once was after downing a dozen mudslides,;then there was that turbulance that resulted in half of the people on the plane yacking into paper bags; and then there was the flu of 1999 and finally, yesterday’s park ‘n ride stop off. I got hit yesterday morning with what could only have been the Voodoo Virus From Hell. It started during a phone conference and, by the time I hung up, I couldn’t decide if I should lay down on the floor in my office and let nature take its course, or risk everything and drive home.
I opted to drive home. The most miserable time I’ve ever spent in a car (save for that three hour one-mile trip in Puerto Rico, but that’s another bitch for another time). Halfway home, I pulled off at the Kennmore Park and Ride, found myself a nice little storm drain and kissed a perfectly good Americano goodbye.
But that’s not half the yack.
On Sunday, it was a different kind of puke. Petey gave new meaning to the phrase ‘sick as a dog.’ He woke me up at 6am, threw up on the rug, then continued to visit the yard for pukish bouts throughout the day. During an afternoon nap he did his thing on the bed.
The events of this week have me thinking about vomiting, how it’s the worst of the bodily functions, how the very idea of it is revolting. And I wonder why. Is it because throwing up is generally associated with being sick? That would make sense, but being sick is what is truly dreaded, vomiting is just a result of being sick. And it doesn’t even accompany most illnesses. Maybe it’s because it comes from our mouths; that in itself is pretty gross. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the reversal (and partial recognition) of food once eaten. But then, aren’t all bodily fluids a biproduct of digestion? Other fluids, stink, so that can’t be it.
So what is the deal with puke? Why has this week had such an impact on me? And why am I so anxious for it to be over with?
And why, for that matter, am I so anxious for this post to be over with?