Stomach cramp and the Subway explosion.

Maybe it’s just spring fever.  Maybe it’s the fact that we skipped spring all together went straight into summer.  Maybe I am getting out while I still can, since the forecast shows snow in it for this weekend.

Such is the life in Northern New York.  You never know what you are going to get.

All I know is that I’ve been spending an awful lot of time outside lately and it’s still doing nothing for me to shed those extra eight pounds from the holidays.  Apparently the holidays consist of those months from Thanksgiving to Easter. 

I’ve been feeling a little under the weather recently.  Perhaps because after my near death experience with divorce bureaucracy I fell into a food binge to comfort my weary soul.  It wasn’t anything drastic.  I know I do have limits and can usually contain them.  But this comfort binge requires a sixty-five mile drive to bring me to the nearest Johnny Rockets so I could just chill in the red pleather booth, surrounded by the chrome and brushed aluminum accents of the joint and just melt away inside a burger and fries with probably the best damn Coke I’ve ever had to drink in my life.

From there, my star-crossed and I, well, we made our way to the local multiplex, where, thanks to my frequenting the place, had earned enough points for a free small popcorn.  Which, despite eating the full burger, two plates of fries and three cokes… i had to have a nibble anyway.  Hell, it was free and I earned it for all the pain I had been through, right?  Spoken like a true food addict  I didn’t even finish the popcorn.  I’m always a little wary of the popcorn, because, no matter what.. I’m too old for it now and my stomach just does not agree with movie popcorn.  I should no better.  But dammit, movies are my business.

That was a few days ago.  Sure, I felt guilty about it.  But I’m not a big guy.  I’m not a heavy guy.  I do exercise (not as much as I should) and I do take care of myself.  But that popcorn refused to let go.  It refused in the shape of a tiny stomach cramp in the lower left of my gut and for three days it has lingered there.  I felt I was well after last night’s cleansing of the soul and workout before bed, and took to the road this morning on a nice 2 mile run.  About one mile in… the cramp came back and said, “what is this that you are doing?  You can’t do this to me!”  And I … well the rest of that story isn’t pretty.

So let’s just say, today is the beginning of that conquest.  I will not let this little cramp get in my way of losing those extra eight pounds of holiday flubber.  Enough excuses.  The weather… rain or shine, has got to stop impeding on my workout regiment.  The cold… sucks.  but it can be dealt with.  The dirty floors and piles of laundry and the acres of dishes have got to find themselves a way.  I know for the past few weeks they have as I have been working on the script.  But they’ll have to continue that way.  I need to make a little extra time here and there to take care of all of this crap.  Writing.  Working out.  Working…. my three W’s apparently.  I have to make time and make do. 

I don’t feel myself right now.  And I have been feeling more of myself than ever over the last few years.  So I won’t let this take it away from me. 

So… little cramp in my gut.  That stray piece of cholesterol laced popcorn kernel.  Yeah.  You.  Either come up or come out.  Cuz I can’t take this for much longer.  

                                                                                                                                       

Did you ever notice how therapeutic vomiting is?  It really humbles you.  It takes you back to a place when you were a child.  I haven’t truly thrown up in five or six years  And before that, it was probably fifteen years.  And I don’t mean alcohol induced vomiting, where it’s just your body rebelling against the stupidity and lack of self-control in your brain.  I am talking about the complete overhaul of your system, where your body is telling you there’s a foreign containment in your tightly controlled system.

A few years back, I grew restless in bed.  My stomach ached like someone had stabbed me with a rusty railroad tie.  When the room began to spin around me, I knew something was going wrong, because I hadn’t had a single drop to drink.  I had a Subway tuna sub for lunch and that was a decision I was soon going to regret.

At approximately 3:30 in the morning, I made a mad dash to the bathroom, for I felt would could only be described as a volcanic eruption brewing in the depths of my soul.  And volcanic eruption cannot even begin to describe the horrors that were about to befall the ceramic tile, porcelain bowl, and particle board cupboards. 

The first wave wasn’t bad.  I threw up.  it fucking hurt.  I felt it mainly in my ribs.  The red burn in my throat.  And looking down to the floating wheat bread and tuna just bade me gag a little and choke on myself.

The second wave I cannot begin to describe.  It started somewhere below my waist.  My body shut down.  I lost my vision.  My eyes clenched.  My ass tightened.  My stomach turned itself inside out.  Between blinks over the next two solid minutes, I was able to see bits of ed, brown and just plain puke gush from me.  In one solid stream, my body revolted against it’s own system and emptied the entire contents of my stomach.  Through my mouth.  Through my nose.  And through my ears.  You have not survived trauma, until you’ve vomited tuna fish out through your ears.

When it was all said and done, the wreckage was immense.  I had never experienced projectile vomiting to this degree.  I remember once running downstairs when I was about seven after spending the day at my grandmothers and eating about twelve too many hostess chocolate donuts and repainting the side of the stairwell that night a nice chocolate brown.  This was different.  I repainted the bathroom with tuna.It went from the floor tiles, huge puddles.  Up along the seat of the throne, over the top, up onto the wall, onto the ceiling.  To the left, completely blanketing the linen closet.  And four feet behind me.

I literally exploded that night. 

I didn’t eat a Subway tuna sandwich for months.

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