Some Blog

More walking, less bleeding: hey la, hey la

06/07/2006

Managing to reach the bottom of the hill without beating Bruce to death with a bloody napkin should have told me something. Unfortunately, Bruce was far too busy chattering about what a lovely day for a flesh wound it was and I was unable to process the goings on as such. He also ran ahead to make sure that all the declines were manageable, as “we know you have a problem with them.”

Bruce mothered around and pulled out the first-aid kit in his car and (chatter chatter chatter).

Back at the resort, I took off for an afternoon of massages and facials and left Bruce to some peace and quiet so that he could complete his resume (uh-oh). I fell asleep as my body was pummeled (and seriously, the guy who was my masseur totally felt me up, but my ass never felt better. Bruce can attest to how very super soft my skin was post massage: “Touch my ass! It’s so smooth!”) and awoke to the guy telling me to roll over. Remember when I fell down a mountain? Well the wound was totally oozy and I apologized a billion times for funkify-ing the table. Then I fell back asleep.

Then there was a steam room…and a facial…and a shower…and a limp back to the room. Bruce was patiently waiting for me (“I missed you” he said and I kind of missed him too, which…weird because for the previous 6 days we hadn’t been apart at all). He had wandered out to get supplies (bandages and Neosporin) and food. We went out and enjoyed (a thing) but I was totally limping and in some pain.

The next morning we woke up and our plans for a picnic brunch were canceled. Luckily Bruce intuited that walking was going to be kept to a minimum and thoughtfully picked up breakfast supplies the previous night. We lazed about and eventually moved out to town for a (radio edit). The (thingy) had a combination of wines and hors d’ovres. I drank (but not a lot I swear) and nibbled at the pickings. A few hours of that and we returned to our room for the final act.

Managing to make it to the (you can’t say that), we settled in for the evening’s show. Bruce was not so much about the first part and was all too willing to go off in search of Tylenol as my knee was throbbing. About this time I began to feel…unwell. Bruce, the trooper that he was returned and we wondered off to get dinner (conveniently packed in the trunk of the car). The unsteady walk, while bothersome, was the least of my problems. I began to feel extremely unwell. Bruce tried to force food on me and all I did was moan about how excited I was for (keeping the secret). At the same time, I was secretly worried that I was going to vomit in the car.

After what seemed like hours, but was surely more like minutes I turned to Bruce and said with authority: “I have to go now.” Bruce, looking far more worried than that time I fell down a mountain (remember that time I fell down a mountain?) packed up all quick and off we went.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I get to tell you all about how on the first time Bruce and I had quality time together, I bleed and vomited (profusely) in front of him. There were chunks of salad coming out of my nose.

Okay, that was a bit of exaggeration; I did not vomit in front of him.

Thankfully, I made it to the bathroom in time, and make no mistake; I shut Bruce out and locked the door. There is nothing worse than vomiting…except vomiting up red wine. You will be happy to know that all the wine remained well nestled inside my so sad stomach; it was just all the food I had nibbled. Remember the food I was nibbling…let’s see, the (event) started at 2 PM, on a lovely and sunny afternoon, I was eating goat cheese at 4:30 PM…hmmm I wonder what on earth this could be. Warm cheese.

Bruce knocked on the door; I moaned (“Go. Away.”), and he respected my need for time and space. I slumped out of the bathroom in kind of a daze, having violently expelled every last piece of food from my body and Bruce ushered me to the couch. Some time passed and there was a room service delivery of Ginger Ale and a bath (made for two…and you can watch TV from it!) and then an early bedtime where I promptly fell asleep (no action for Bruce that night).

The next morning we checked out and drove back to (somewhere else). I caught a plane home that evening and spent the following week recovering. My knee has just about fully healed.

The whole point of this post is this: as I laid on the couch, bemoaning how I bled and vomited in front of Bruce, a mere three months into the relationship, and he played with my hair, Bruce replied: “It’s okay, I’m your boyfriend.”

Guess I have to cross that off my To Do list.

PS. Didn’t I tell you that the mythical Good Guy status would be proven?