As I settle into the first day of my new age, I must say that with the exception of a few more white hairs, I feel pretty good.  I’ve quit smoking, like I had imagined, waaay before my skin yellowed anymore than my ethnicity demands.  I’m pretty, pretty fit, and pretty okay with being called a youngish adult (as opposed to my previous label of “oldish boy”).

Except for the acid reflux, choking, eyes watering, vomiting thing that I get every now and again, I’d pretty much say that I’m in the best shape of my life.

So this crazy choking thing only really bothers me when I’m hungry and try to eat too fast.  I masticate and swallow like a normal person and I don’t know what actually happens but things start burning in my esophagus, as if big, dry, chunks of food were getting stuck in my throat.  I can’t cough because it feels like my throat is closing up and that acid taste bubbles up in my mouth as if I was going to hurl. 

So I’m hungry, choking, and possibly might need to vomit.  It’s a bad scene that lasts a few minutes and then goes away, leaving a raw feeling in my throat.  When it happens, I get a funny glint in my eye and Mary Milan prepares to deliver the Heimlich or a swift punch in the stomach.  It usually happens at home which makes me feel safe, even though I can’t really breathe. 

Today, it happened at work.  So I calmly walk to the bathroom and proceed to stand over the toilet, coughing, dry heaving and making aborted vomit noises. 

Then, nightmare - someone walks into the bathroom.  Hearing my dry heave vomit noises, the guy stops.  I try to see if I recognize the shoes and pants but I don’t.  

An awkward moment as he decides whether or not to use to the urinal.  Finally, the urge to pee supercedes respecting my privacy, so he approaches the urinal next to the stall I’m in. 

As he pees, I continue to dry heave and spit viscous globs of salivia, carrots, and bile.

The only thing I can think of is how there is always talk on my floor about how skinny I am so he must think I have some horrible eating disorder, instead of a horrible swallowing disorder. 

I want to say to him, “Dude, it’s cool.  Seriously, I’m not bullimic,” but decide that some things are better left unsaid and maybe he doesn’t recognize my shoes either. 

Speaking of vomit, cinetrix sent this in, which asks, “Why on earth is Matthew Barney not a Jackass?”  It’s a great question, considering their work in post dadaist art and all, and I can only posit that the creator of The Cremaster Cycle just doesn’t have a healthy sense of humor. 

 

 

 

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