The Sickness
2003-03-25, 4:54 p.m.

Saturday absofuckinglutely beautiful spring day. Matt and I decide to go for a ride to asheville. ah, hell, I'll save the details and get straight to the point.

1. Going 70 miles/hr down highway, lean my head out the window, and boot 3 times. Once, so I could throw up in the backseat since the back window was partially open. Twice, so I could freeze dry the puke all along the side of the car. And the third time, to get grampy and grammy involved in the car next to us, by me vomiting on their windshield. I don't have words to describe the looks of horror I glimpsed through the windshield wipers and a gallon of windshield fluid. next exit: abject humiliation and matt hosing me down.

2. dance it out (get a toothbrush, toothpaste, pull myself together and proceed with the day.) asheville is out of the question. drive to local mountain park area and decide to climb 1000 feet in almost 80 degree weather. steep. over gigantic rocks. and fallen logs. in medium heel sandals with no traction. it wouldn't have been so bad if people coming down the mountain weren't mocking me to my face about my inappropriate footwear. I get knocked down, but I get up again, no you never gonna keep me down. top of mountain. dying of dehydration but worth the 2.5 mile hike up. going down, sandals...not so much. Had to take off sandals, and billygoat it down the mountain barefoot at 100 miles/hr, knocking children and elderly aside on my descent.

3. back to car and onto "little dans," totally towny convenience store with fife thousant people hanging about on the porch. yummy powerade. going down. when I get to car and have 92 people watch me throw it back up, not so yummy. just liquid so horrible retching sound like bleuuuuch, splash. bleuuuuch, splash. bleuuuuch, splash. the splash being when it hits pavement. people pointing at me and saying "ohmigod, that's so disgusting."

4. get home, sleep 4 hours and wake up to drink new concoction by Matt ("Coral Splash"--coconut rum, V8 Splash Orange/Pineapple, with Cran-Raspberry). Party like its 1999.

5. Scott calls me at 345am to tell me that a) despite being in silicone valley and lugging his laptop cross country, he has no internet access, and b) he has learned to read and is whiling away the hours in san fran by becoming a buddhist (thanks miles). He felt compelled at 4am to read me the 6 holes of some nonsense of the Buddhavista (sp?).

ahh, yes, inappropriate.

But really the point of all this is to say that today Matt has the vomitus. OHMYGOD, he spent ALLLL night throwing up.

Why is it my lot in life to experience everything before him and it be sooo much worse the second time around? That's my own fault in marrying a younger man I suppose. But as for the sickness thing, it's become absurd. I vomit all day Saturday AND climb a mountain to keep the good times rolling, but my dearest can hardly pick his sorry head from the pillow.

"Give me icecubes," he whispers in half death voice.

Puuh-lease. But because I'm more of a nurturer, I get the icecubes, and pet his head while he sleeps. I must say that I tend to maintain a non-sexist attitude in most things. I hardly ever think most men or most women do a certain thing, let alone ALL men or ALL women. But certainly, this sickness thing has to be an ALL male thing...that is to say, perceiving death as the outcome of an illness already experienced by the female counterpart of the household. Even my own father, who generally should have whipped my mother earlier on in their relationship to avoid how spoiled she is today, cries like a wee thing when he gets a hangnail. Meanwhile, my mother has already had reconstructive surgery on the entire hand. But he's sure it will be his end.

At a lovely brunch on Sunday ($70 for bacon and eggs?), our waiter thought himself a jokester and said, "Married men die much earlier than single men, but they're also more willing." Ha. And funny waiters get no tips when the chick has got the credit card. But I'm thinking, are men more afraid of death than women? Of course, this is a generalization, but I think that can be the only explanation for why sickness = death is a man's mind. There's no other possible explanation.

Well, off to sponge bath my husband and feed him broth from breadcrumbs.