For the purpose of this post, I’m going to call my partner in crime - Lebron.
She’s just going to have to deal with the fact that I’m the Kobe in this Olympic relationship.
Lebron and I were enjoying some Tuesday evening indigestion/conversation.
We closed our tab. Blew the bartender’s beard a kiss (he has the nicest beard, I want to drink it like a vodka soda). And we bumped chests (because that’s what Kobe & Lebron would do, right?).
I don’t remember how exactly, but SOMEHOW, in the midst of our grand goodbye, we digressed…
I blame Lebron.
I think she wished me luck. Because I had just come back from the dead.
I had spent the last 48 hours in bed, with Dysentary (thank you, Oregon Trail, for allowing me to give all of my ex-boyfriends this disease while I forged rivers without their weak a$$es). Fine…I probably didn’t have Dysentary. But I probably could have. I had something terrible. Let’s call it - Contagion.
We aren’t positive, but we think my Contagion was caused by poor food and beverage choices – most likely 1.5 pork sliders and/or 3 boneless hot wings – accompanied by a couple of iced coffees and a handful of cocktails (I’m still having issues with hydration, despite the hospital bills I’m still paying, related to my issues with hydration).
In any event…
When Lebron brought me home (I loved writing that), I was fine. Even Lebron said I was fine. I was tired. Really tired. But I was fine. A few hours after I went to bed…I woke up with Contagion. I’ll spare you the gory details (for a few more lines), but it wasn’t pretty. I lost a few lbs in a few hours (Y-E-S) and I couldn’t sit up in my bed for more than a few minutes without wanting to die. Literally, die. I was freezing in 100 degree heat. I was sweating, while I was freezing. I couldn’t eat. Or drink. I was pretty sure I was going to infect the entire country (with the exception of Matt Damon, he’s immune to Contagion).
Fast forward to the chest bump/goodbye a few days later…
Lebron told me the same thing happened to her once. At a dude’s house. A dude…she was dating. Not her boyfriend. Not her husband. A dude she actually liked. That she was JUST dating. And her Contagion was so bad she couldn’t even pull it together long enough to get herself home, so she could avoid spreading Contagion all over HIS house. I was suddenly reminded of one of the greatest luxuries of long-term relationships, ESPECIALLY marriage. You could $%&! your pants all the way from the living room to the bathroom…and there’s NOTHING your significant other can do about it. They don’t have to like you when you have Contagion. They don’t even have to help you clean up Contagion. But there’s really no need to be mortified by Contagion. You should be WAY past that point. You can just let it all out (in the most romantic way possible, of course).
When you’re dating someone…there are few things more humiliating than feces. And when it’s coming out both ends (this is what we call Contagion), you really only have one choice (right Lebron?)…YOU CUT AND RUN. You get the hell out (and destroy your own property). If it’s too late. If the Contagion hits you like it hit Lebron and I – with little to no warning – your choices are witness protection or relocation (or else your $%&! will follow you everywhere you go). Lebron told me when this happened to her, she actually got $%&! on the dude’s bathroom floor. She told me she thanked her Contagion stars he was a bachelor and didn’t have some sort of fancy bathroom rug. She was so thankful it was just tile. She obviously would have had to pack up the rug…then cut…then run. She probably would have worn the rug out to her car. I imagine her clothes were soiled by that point too.
All the potty talk made me laugh so hard I cried. I laughed so hard I almost puked (again). I even learned a few things…
Laughter really is the best medicine. Always has been. Always will be.
I’m going to try not to complain about my bathroom for a while. At least it’s MY bathroom. And I’m free to Contagion all over it, without judgment.
I’m going to try to stop talking about cats and poop with Lebron in public. People must think we’re way past our prime. We better not be way past our prime.
There are no photographs in my photo album that could appropriately accompany this post, so I picked a photo of a really great bangs day instead. I have issues. I know. I have always known.