Throwing Up vs. Sex: The Venn Overlap
You know those dainty little thrower-uppers, who just sort of tilt their head down, put their hand to their mouth and spit up? It's like they had throw-up classes at finishing school, or were the most well-behaved babies ever and never grew out of it. Yeah, that is so not me. I am a throw-up drama queen, all moans and groans and heavy breathing. It's like the end of the world, or my liver, when I puke. I was reminded of that this week when I woke up Thursday morning at 4:30 AM and rushed to the bathroom before emptying my stomach several times over, to be repeated with water, Sprite and dry heaves for the next few days. Stomach flu is the worst!
But, as always, it reminded me of something funny. (I consider my ability to find the humor and funny aspects of life to be one of my more humane qualities. You're welcome, humanity.) Picture it: China, spring time, T.'s apartment, 1 AM. I'm slowly turning green and it's apparent I'm going to start tossing my cookies any moment, so he pulls my hair into a ponytail for me, brings over a little wastebasket lined with a bag and sets it next to the bed; I'm face down, so all I have to do is sort of tilt my head over the edge and puke into the trash. He rubs my back with one hand and plays with my iPod Touch with the other while I groan and moan and puke for what seems like forever, until finally exhausting myself enough to fall asleep.
The next morning, I feel terrible about putting him through that and apologize for A: being gross in front of him and B: being so moany about it. His response: "No worries, no big deal!" (Note: this is T's general outlook and attitude toward life, which is why everyone who meets him loves him.) "You threw up for almost an hour, though; I'm sure my neighbors thought they were getting quite the wild sex show, hearing all that through the wall!"
But, as always, it reminded me of something funny. (I consider my ability to find the humor and funny aspects of life to be one of my more humane qualities. You're welcome, humanity.) Picture it: China, spring time, T.'s apartment, 1 AM. I'm slowly turning green and it's apparent I'm going to start tossing my cookies any moment, so he pulls my hair into a ponytail for me, brings over a little wastebasket lined with a bag and sets it next to the bed; I'm face down, so all I have to do is sort of tilt my head over the edge and puke into the trash. He rubs my back with one hand and plays with my iPod Touch with the other while I groan and moan and puke for what seems like forever, until finally exhausting myself enough to fall asleep.
The next morning, I feel terrible about putting him through that and apologize for A: being gross in front of him and B: being so moany about it. His response: "No worries, no big deal!" (Note: this is T's general outlook and attitude toward life, which is why everyone who meets him loves him.) "You threw up for almost an hour, though; I'm sure my neighbors thought they were getting quite the wild sex show, hearing all that through the wall!"
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