Last week, I got tonsillitis.
Nasty, pus filled, swollen golfballs of broken glass lodged in my throat, robbing me of speech and turning me into a drool monkey.
Seriously. I do not spit. I find it disgusting, even in the dentists chair, to spit. (Now take your minds OUT of the gutter please.)
Last week, I spit.
I spit in the front yard, the trash can, the toilet, the cup in my car. I spit because it hurt too much to swallow.
And for all you Deep Throat pervs out there, I repeat, TAKE YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER.
I was smacked upside the tonsils with an illness that belongs to children.
And I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Add to that the fact that day two involved eightteen long hours of dry heaving on a fiendishly sore throat and it was just peaches for me!
While I knew I was sick and I knew it was the pus or the meds or just the gods smiting me down, I still had that moment.
Even knowing that Aunt Flo was visting, I still had that moment.
Because, in my world, vomitting = pregnancy.
I resisted the urge to give The Man a heart attack and send him out for a pee on a stick test, but just barely.
And I'm glad I did.
Because evidently the puking pustules have passed to the patriarch in our family.
And I know he's not preggers.
At least, not by me.
No comments:
Post a Comment