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21 more things = 42

The last post was the 21 things I KNOW at 42. At the end I said I'd consider writing 21 more things to make it 42 in total & then ...


TMI: my apologies

The excitement of being with most of my father's side of the family for a Bahamian Cruise vacay had been bubbling for a few months now, at least since the down payment was put up for my cabin, and crested this past Friday. Last week I packed and left Chocolate City's on again off again Spring weather and headed for sunny skies and sandy beaches. I greeted Orlando's palm trees like long lost family members I was happy to reconnect with and prepared to trade in my "winter whites" for golden brown. I only complained mildly of the dense humidity, ecstatic to remove my scarf. Yes...it's still been chilly enough on occasion to keep the damn thing handy. I took a picture with a new admirer who had a chance to read my work on the shared plane ride and promised to email it to him. Afterward, my sister and I endured the bumpy ride in the shuttle van that reminded us that its migrant worker staff's salaries depended on our tips. In a good mood, glad to be away from the doldrums of working and paying bills, I tipped well above the requirement and far more than their semi-professional service deserved. I got off the shuttle and handsomely tipped the handsome porter who rescued our luggage from the disinterested migrant worker duo, and headed off to board our ship with him promising to look for me when we returned. I then waded through the elderly, Floridian retiree workforce, finally able to board the Monarch of the Seas where my sister and I were personally greeted by the ship's band in mid-verse. All that built up excitement was coursing through my veins like a drug; I couldn't wait to see my family and get the party started!! A few hours after getting on board, we changed and headed to our first dinner together. I had the salad and the garlic shrimp. I skipped the dessert, having no intentions of gaining weight on this trip.

Now, let me go back just a bit. Two weeks prior to embarking on our oceanic journey, I kicked my workouts up a notch, trying to shake 5 final pounds, unsuccessfully. Back to the story.

Blah blah blah...not 12 hours later I was awakened by the start of my mutha fuggin ending [for my Mobb Deep heads]. As the seas rolled around and beneath us, the garlic shrimp rolled around in my stomach, seeking an expeditious exit. My sister slept soundly next to me, so I grabbed the trash can and headed for the lavatory. I don't know how I knew to bring the trash can but something in me must've known that the shrimp was trying to escape through any available orifice. And it did. NEVER in my life have I had anything leave me from top and bottom simultaneously. Disgusted by the experience, I got myself together and crept back to bed. Put this horror show on repeat and play it back 1....count 'em...2...wait, not done yet...3 more times. After it was all said and done, I assumed there was nothing left in me and tried to get some sleep. So much for the abs class and rock climbing before we anchored in Nassau.

Breakfast. All agreed that I'd lost so much so I must put something back in my system in order to be able to do little things like...oh, I don't know...continue to effin' stand. So, I went to breakfast with a few members of the family and tried to take in some bread, a 1/2 a grapefruit, and an omelette at my father's insistence. I felt slightly energized and decided to resume my vacay. Yeah, right. Leaving poolside my stomach lurched and I found myself French kissing a standing recyclable bin. The omelette apparently was my stomach's last straw. Determined not to be left behind while everyone else explored Nassau, I wiped myself off like any grown woman in a club restroom and proceeded to our cabin to change clothes for our excursion. Bent over through most of it, and having to stay too near to public restrooms, I made it through a few hours of Nassau. While the rest of the family went in search of the Fish Fry, I went back to my room and passed out. Later, my sister returned with the most succulent grilled fish, rice and peas, that my stomach and the ship's rules wouldn't allow me to have. $20 blown. So was my fun. While my family showed how the Stanky Leg is really done, I was in my grandmother's room, soaking up her stories and her love in between long naps and stomach rumblings wild enough to wake me and send me to get too familiar with a bathroom that other people had to continue to use. I was escorted back to my cabin by the partygoers at 3 a.m.

By now I'm curious what the hell my body is exporting because I hadn't been able to import anything. The factory kept making it up and cranking it out with wild smells and a variety of colors I'm not familiar with in humans. The shit, literally, was scary. The next morning I tried my hand at another bread breakfast, trying to use it as a sponge to soak up all the water hanging out in my stomach and intestines. Then I put on my pretty new tankini, slathered myself with tanning oil, and met up with the rest of the fam to catch a ferry to Coco Cay. Things looked up here. I still couldn't eat anything, but the trips to the bathroom lessened in frequency, though the consistency (sorry) remained the same. I was able to sun tan burn and even take in some paddle boating. Glorious. Back to the boat. Changed into my pretty party dress and headed on down to our final dinner together where I was able to eat..............nothing. I'm starving and unable to eat. I'm dehydrated. I'm weak. I'm pissed off.

The particulars of the trip don't even matter anymore. At this point, they mostly happened without me anyway. Lets just say that things got NO BETTER when we got off the boat, back at our original port, and I had to struggle through the flight delay and being stuck in an airport with nothing but public restrooms at my disposal. I learned on this trip that I WILL do the unthinkable. I used to be that person who hated nothing more than to have to go pee, walk into a public restroom, into some stranger's heat, and have my breath catch and hold in my chest. Suddenly I have to question how bad do I have to pee and how long do I think my bladder will remain true to me? Well, now I'm that person who has found myself caught in an emergency so thick that it didn't even give me pause whether to break it down or not. There's only one choice. I did do the people a favor and flush frequently so as not to let any wild odors linger. I also discovered that when I can't stand up without great pain or discomfort, I will sit or lay anywhere: the airport floor, or sleep stretched out on an airport bench. I put my head down on the table in Ruby Tuesdays where I went in search of potatoes (french fries) to sustain my stomach and my increasing low blood sugar.

I missed most of my family vacay, but not my grandmother's smile. That was the point. Even though I'm still trying to get my electrolytes up and regulate my blood sugar, it was all worth it to see her so happy to be surrounded by the people she's given birth to. She's our matriarch and she felt the honor and respect we were trying to pay her. The fact that I still can't eat a meal or pass anything solid matters very little in comparison.

And I managed to drop that last 5 pounds. Silver lining.

Reaching with that 1...

Watch me move.

1 comment:

  1. I too have felt the revenge of Montezuma and wondered what my azz (literally) had done to him to deserve such wrath. I was in the Dominican and avoided the water like the plague per the advice of one of our favorite flower children. As I shared this sage advice with my dear fiance (I later married this man WTF???), he said, I'm not scared of no water, I'm from Anacostia. So my dumb azz (there's that word again) thought that my delicate constitution could match his Barry Farms-bred iron clad stomach. I drank the water and indulged in a lot of rich and strange foods that I would never have sampled state-side. I felt great! Had a ball and met some wonderful people. We headed to the non air-conditioned airport and I felt the 'ish come down. I was suffering. I headed towards the nearest restroom and became the woman that people give the side-eye to when they emerge from the stall. Now luckily, I was the parent of a two-year old at the time and one thing that any parent of a toddler knows to carry is baby wipes. I kept a supply on me wherever I went for his emergencies (or more because I loathed the traditional baby bags, and most of my purses served as his carry-alls). While the restroom carried the scent of my wild aroma, my azz was baby powder fresh. Hubby was alternately amused and embarrased by my extendd absence, but I was relieved that Montezuma was fairly done with me. I had a few more bouts but I was glad that I was heading home and not still trying to enjoy my vacation.