Shokufeh is... home

I heart the hurl

When I was around twelve, I went to meet up with a friend in the park. At some point, she realized that she really needed to pee. We were pretty far from the toilets, and I will always remember her walking, pigeon-toed, attempting to keep her liquids inside, grimacing from the effort. I was walking ahead of her, perhaps in an attempt to cheer on, to pick up her pace. As we neared the bathroom, I turned around and she was walking normally and had a relieved look on her face. My confusion must have been apparent, as she then said, good-naturedly, "I don't have to go anymore." Her cousin, who gave us a ride home, was not amused when he found out he'd just couriered a girl in her wet pants, but I always get a little chuckle out of it. I think it's also a good lesson that, sometimes, while we fear letting go, it can provide comfort.

No, I didn't pee my pants tonight. But I did something I've long avoided and feared: I hurled. For twenty-plus years, I was free of the hurl. Anti-hurl. I had an introduction to the process last year after birthing MrMan, as a reaction to the anesthesia. It hurt like the dickens, since I'd just had major abdominal surgery. Needless to say, it didn't really remove my fear of the hurl, just convinced me that it hurts.

But, tonight, I moved into the pro-hurl camp. I'd been feeling nauseated for a few hours, and was lucky to make it to the toilet in time for the blessed event. I guess that's part of the reason for my new stance on the hurl: it was well contained. But the big reason is that it made me feel so much better. I've been missing out for a big part of my life. If my body is willing, I'd even go for round two. I heart the hurl.

Just in case there is wondering, let me quash your conjecturing. I am not pregnant. I would assume that this is the same bug that hit MrMan Saturday night for eight hours.