I feel bad about that last post. It might leave a bad taste in your mouth. You may have noticed that I'm sometimes a confessional blogger, and that's not often good. I should try to write about other things. So consider this post a mental tooth brushing and gargle.
David Ramirez is on a constant loop around here lately. I love his sound. Just listen:
And to this one:
Is it weird that I think that would be a great wedding song? I have a thing for songs that are achy and honest and redemptive. So sue me.
Like I needed another reason to drop a load of cash on air travel to Texas.
This one's my favorite. Enjoy!
Monday, September 9, 2013
And then I threw up again...
I don't get sick very much. Exhausted, yes. I usually catch a mild cold that lasts from January to April and flairs up every three years into a miserable 3-day flu-like interlude in March. Every once in a while I get a tummy ache. But I never throw up. In fact, I'm one of those awful people who actually wishes, upon feeling even slightly nauseated, that I could just barf and get it over with, because it would be just that easy. I can count on less than one hand the number of times I've vomited in the last twenty years. Until this weekend.
Oh glory, that was a heck of a camping trip. Friday was lovely. A lucky campsite at Calf Creek. A nap by the water followed by a late afternoon hike to the falls. A campfire dinner, s'mores, then dead tiredness and such readiness to sleep in the dark and the quiet. I ignored the mild nausea I felt in the morning, and we made breakfast, broke camp and headed on to Capitol Reef. Halfway between Boulder and Torrey the mild nausea took a nasty turn, and there I was, asking my friend to pull over at the next turnout.
It is a humiliating thing, bending over by the side of the road as minivans and bikers pass by, revisiting your latest meal and getting a good glimpse of your stomach acid. But that's okay, even if it's the very first time you have ever vomited anywhere but in the safety and security of your own home. Because then you feel better. You brush your teeth, you drink a little water, you chalk it up to something you ate, and you move on. You also get a little hungry and you eat a half a scone after setting up camp in Fruita, where you are shocked to find several delightful sites on a Saturday morning in September.
So, you're feeling fine, and looking forward to another delightful day and night in what may just be your favorite place in the world (top 5, for certain) as you drive into town for ice and firewood. And then you start to feel that bile-ish rise in your esophagus, and you suggest that maybe you should lie down in the shaded tent for a few minutes, to which your kind friend readily agrees. It only takes about 30 minutes before you're apologizing as you lean out the tent door, wretching and trying not to hit the tarp, limbs shaking and color going out of your face. And that's when you realize that most of your camping neighbors are there, witnessing your gross among the shade and the quiet. They give you looks of concern mixed with disgust, and you are relieved when kind friend quietly and decisively invites you to sit and rest while she packs up the tent and gets everything ready to go.
At this point, you know that it's not something you ate. It will likely be anything you eat for the next 24 hours. And you're four hours from home. Strategy turns into avoiding dehydration, so it's a cold Aquafina sipped very slowly from a straw. And still, two hours later, you are hunched over by the side of I-70, mostly dry heaving the very dregs of your stomach, and wondering what the h went wrong here. And as you drive into the weirdest storm Utah county has seen in a lifetime, you pray a mixed prayer: that kind friend will somehow make it through the zero-visibility and washed-out freeway safely, and that the storm will move south and wash away the evidence of your stomach despair in that pristine wilderness.
So how was your weekend?
Oh glory, that was a heck of a camping trip. Friday was lovely. A lucky campsite at Calf Creek. A nap by the water followed by a late afternoon hike to the falls. A campfire dinner, s'mores, then dead tiredness and such readiness to sleep in the dark and the quiet. I ignored the mild nausea I felt in the morning, and we made breakfast, broke camp and headed on to Capitol Reef. Halfway between Boulder and Torrey the mild nausea took a nasty turn, and there I was, asking my friend to pull over at the next turnout.
It is a humiliating thing, bending over by the side of the road as minivans and bikers pass by, revisiting your latest meal and getting a good glimpse of your stomach acid. But that's okay, even if it's the very first time you have ever vomited anywhere but in the safety and security of your own home. Because then you feel better. You brush your teeth, you drink a little water, you chalk it up to something you ate, and you move on. You also get a little hungry and you eat a half a scone after setting up camp in Fruita, where you are shocked to find several delightful sites on a Saturday morning in September.
So, you're feeling fine, and looking forward to another delightful day and night in what may just be your favorite place in the world (top 5, for certain) as you drive into town for ice and firewood. And then you start to feel that bile-ish rise in your esophagus, and you suggest that maybe you should lie down in the shaded tent for a few minutes, to which your kind friend readily agrees. It only takes about 30 minutes before you're apologizing as you lean out the tent door, wretching and trying not to hit the tarp, limbs shaking and color going out of your face. And that's when you realize that most of your camping neighbors are there, witnessing your gross among the shade and the quiet. They give you looks of concern mixed with disgust, and you are relieved when kind friend quietly and decisively invites you to sit and rest while she packs up the tent and gets everything ready to go.
At this point, you know that it's not something you ate. It will likely be anything you eat for the next 24 hours. And you're four hours from home. Strategy turns into avoiding dehydration, so it's a cold Aquafina sipped very slowly from a straw. And still, two hours later, you are hunched over by the side of I-70, mostly dry heaving the very dregs of your stomach, and wondering what the h went wrong here. And as you drive into the weirdest storm Utah county has seen in a lifetime, you pray a mixed prayer: that kind friend will somehow make it through the zero-visibility and washed-out freeway safely, and that the storm will move south and wash away the evidence of your stomach despair in that pristine wilderness.
So how was your weekend?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)