The morning we’re to leave for Alabama, I wake up with a sore throat, and within an hour I’m puking in the sink.*
This isn’t as strange as you would think. Two times I’ve been so sick with cold/sinus crap that I thought my eardrums were going to burst on an international flight. In Thailand, I lounged around in the 90-degree weather and ate pad Thai while my sinus cold did some traveling of its own: from my head to my throat to my chest. In China, the night before Josh and I were to take off on the train to see the Terracotta Soldiers, I spent the night in the bathroom puking.
I turn off my alarm and get back in bed.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a strange eruption has developed on Josh’s arm. The kind of thing that would get you declared “unclean” in the book of Leviticus. It looks like poison ivy, except that Josh has not done anything that would expose him to poison ivy for a good three months. It is spreading.
Here are two more rules of Tremill travel to add to your list. One: I will get a cold. Two: Josh will get some strange ailment.
On our cruise last year, despite three applications of SPF 55, despite sitting under a sunshade, despite only being out in the sun for two hours, Josh got such a bad sunburn on his legs that it hurt to wear shoes all week. Two days later, on a snorkeling excursion, he hit his leg against a rock and had to be treated by iodine. Thirty minutes later, the snorkel boat captain lectured us on the dangers of accidentally touching “fire coral” but then added, “Don’t worry. Nobody’s gotten it in the twelve years that I’ve been running this boat.”
Two minutes out of the water, Josh saw the rash on his arm. “Is this bad?” he asked the captain.
It lasted for a week.
One cold. One rash. One 3500-mile road trip.
We’ve been on the road for three miles when we smell something (ahem) earthy. “Is it just me, or do you smell something like pee mixed with country ham?” I ask Josh.
Two miles later, I start to doubt that the smell is coming from outside. We pull the car over.
Five minutes from Marti’s house, ten minutes since we dumped out the litter box, the cat has anxiety-pooped on the top layer of things in our backseat. On Josh’s black sport coat. One cannot say that she does not have a sense of humor.
“You stay here. I’ll wash it out,” is probably the most beautiful sentence in the world to a woman who was puking two hours ago.
I’ll spare you the details, but the sport coat was beyond salvage. Apparently the cat was more anxious than we thought. “It’s going to smell the whole way,” Josh tells me. “Do you care if I throw it away?”
“How long has it been since you’ve worn it?” I ask him.
“High school,” he says. He is already on his way to the trash can.
Divested so far: one sport coat.
*A note: I am not pregnant. So don’t even say anything.
A second note: I chose not to include pictures themed to this post. You can thank me later. In the meantime, enjoy these photos of some luggage.