Choking: A Reflection on Living

Life is a curious thing, but I find myself continually thankful to have a mini part of life. It is good to breathe and feel my lungs expand with cool air even as it burns past the place where water caught and choked me. Water gives life, but it can take life as well. These things make you think and wonder. Suddenly, even crappy days are worth being thankful for since there is always hope that the next day might be good or at least better.

You see, these thoughts stem from a happenstance that gained significance as the quiet wildness of the absolute need for breath to live seized my entire consciousness. Standing in the hallway outside of a meeting choking on laughter and unable to breathe because of water trapped in my throat, I raised my hands in desperation of appeal to no one in particular – perhaps to God or even in the desire that the prisoned water might trickle away from the knot that it had tied so completely around my throat.

In this moment, realization sent warning through my head. I stood alone in the hallway. If I could not gather air to my lungs, I might collapse. With no one to realize the danger until the sound of my body slamming against the floor alerted them to trouble and without the happy reassurance of the sound of my voice calling that all was well to allay the sudden fear of silence, they would scurry to my inert, un-breathing self. This could not happen.

Everything within screamed “Breathe! Stop laughing and try to breathe!” Try, I did. The knot of water would not loosen. I tried to gasp in air. Nothing. My chest painfully heaved. Air could not pass the wall of water in my throat. Tears clogged my eyes, and my body violently heaved in a last ditch effort to gain the air that suddenly made the difference between breathing and never breathing again.

The convulsion began at my abdomen and pounded through the rest of my body like a tsunami. From my mouth spewed the result of this bodily wave, and the cool necessity of my body’s longing filled my nose and my lungs. And I hoarsely laughed again, this time thankful to be able to laugh but embarrassed to have dumped the contents of my dinner on the hallway floor.

Through laughter and tear, I cleaned up the mess. And my friend said to me, “After this, we’ll either be tight or never be able to look at each other in the eye again.” Although the cause of this almost deathly laughter, she had also been the first to check when I had not returned to the room. She had come asking, “Are you okay?” to see me standing over a splash of puke with arms spread and body shaking as my first breath revitalized me after my recognition of possible death.

For now, I remember to be thankful for each breath because it hurts to breath as the air rasps across my throat – the place where the water knot sat. I want to live. I have every reason to live, to breathe, to laugh, and to spread this thankfulness to Jesus that my time on earth is not over.

I might as well be a 12-year-old boy

I find farting hilarious. Yes, I'm one of those people. Perhaps, you think it's gross. I think it's funny. It causes such awkward and amusing situations. And this is not the first time that I've talked about farting. Curious? Yeah, I thought so. Just go search the word "fart" in the above search box for my blog. You know you want to.

If that story is not enough. Then, you need to go check out this link for more reading on farting.
Pull my finger. Oh, I'm sorry. That was immature. (The link is in the phrase, though, so go click it)

A friend and I went to Barnes and Noble late one night. I found this book.

It's amazing that we made it out of that book store alive. I was crying I was laughing so very hard. There are stories from confirmed farters. There are stories from those who are married to Farters and from those who were innocent by-standers. Yes, I just turned the word "fart" into a noun. Life just got a bit more funny.

Have a lovely day! Don't forget to fart.

Autumn Song

After a valiant struggle with my laptop over the installation of a new internet security program, I finally won. It took four hours. Did I ever mention that I'm not the most computer-savvy? Yeah, that would be my brother's realm. Also, I tend to be stubborn so I was not about to admit defeat to a computer that is basically a very smart inanimate object. So I didn't ask for help. Ergo, four hours later, I did a happy dance in the middle of my living space meaning that I fell over backwards with satisfaction onto the floor - to an onlooker, I might have appeared to be a dead possum. Staring at the ceiling, I sighed heavily before I started the scariness that is my homework.

Currently, I soothe the wrinkles that might have become permanently etched in my forehead by listening to Nat King Cole croon "Embrace me, you irreplaceable you." Perhaps I'll waltz around my kitchen space by myself - it might be reminiscent of an elephant - but, hey. We can't all be angelic ballerinas so pardon me while I go thump out a beat.

Embraceable You with Nat King Cole
Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you
Embrace me, you irreplaceable you

Just one look at you
My heart grew tipsy in me
You and you alone
Bring out the Gypsy in me

I love all the many charms about you
Above all, I want my arms about you

Don't be a naughty baby
Come to papa, come to papa do
My sweet embraceable you

I love all the many charms about you
Above all, I want my arms about you

Don't be a naughty baby
Come to papa, come to papa do
My sweet embraceable you

p.s. this post is called "Autumn Song" simply because I talk about a song and it happens to be October (wait. when did that happen?).

A Bookworm vs. Athleticism

via

When people say "sports," my response is without a doubt, "No thank you."
I considered myself to be the epitome of un-athleticism. I took a basketball gym class this past semester. I told my friends that "I humiliate myself by the minute." I thought it was funny. When these friends asked me why I didn't take bowling or something for the less athletic, I responded, "If I'm going to take a gym class, I want to take a gym class! No faking for me." Going to that class once a week truly tested my resolve and my pride.

I may have a body, but I'm not naturally good at athletics. No, sir. I'm more of the type that will sit by the sideline reading a book while fans are on all sides of my cheering their little hearts out.

This summer has changed all of that.

I'm living with my cousins. Did I mention that they are all quite athletic and sports minded? Yep, that was a huge adjustment.

I surprised myself.

I'm jogging three times a week with my boy cousin. I can do some men push-ups. I've played soccer and basketball. I didn't die. I may not be amazing, but apparently I've got a bit of a competitive spirit. Twice a week, most of the family goes to play basketball at a small Christian high school. Nicole and I play even though she's barely hit middle school and I'm in the exit lane from college. We get drenched in sweat. I'm talking that I sweated through 2 shirts. Yeah, I'm still grossed out about that.

For a long time, sports and I were not friends. Perhaps it had something to do with my dislike of sweating. Perhaps, it had to do something with my pride and desire to do everything that I tough perfectly. I don't know.

However, I think sports and I may have come to a truce. Sports help me to get past myself. Suddenly, I need to think about the team. If I worry about myself too much, we all lose! I lose because I didn't try and my team loses the use of one player. Sports are supposed to be fun. right? Well, I'm going with that idea.

Challenge of the Day: get over yourself and try something new and be a good sport even if you're not very good at said thing (it's a stretching experience!).

Bathroom Publicity: The Dominican Republic Edition

As a little girl, I wanted to be dropped off in the middle of some country and left there to learn the language. In those wild dreams, I was always the heroine of some adventurous novel where I magically learned the language and somehow saved the day. I think my daydreams about the Dominican Republic subtly followed those same absurd dreams. Therefore, unprepared for the reality that I didn’t speak Spanish fluently, I woke one morning expecting fluency. That morning began very rudely indeed.

Rolling out of my bed proved difficult as my body seemed to have had dreams of becoming a butterfly overnight since my sheets tightly cocooned me under mint green mosquito net. In the darkened room, I fumbled around for my flip flops. Sleepily, I wandered to the pink bathroom to relieve my bowels. Trying to ignore the overabundance of bugs that hummed near my head and hung in webs above my head, I pooped.

Now, normally, I would shudder at the thought of being so frank with you, my readers, but in the D.R., one becomes intimately acquainted with the bowel movements of all their companions that speak the same language, that is. Lack of pooping or diarrhea can both be very bad and up to this morning I had not pooped. Therefore, pooping was a great relief to me.

After carefully depositing my soiled toilet paper in the waste basket beside the toilet, I yanked up my pants and turned to flush the toilet. The relief of pooping greatly satisfied me and I wanted to proclaim to the world that I temporarily no longer feared constipation. This strange joy abruptly halted when the toilet refused to swallow my lovingly bestowed gift. I peered into the toilet. In my head, I whispered, “Please, please…go down…” as I again tried to flush the toilet. Hoping against hope, I waited. Nothing happened. “Crap.” I whispered and then I chuckled to myself for indeed it was just that – crap.

As I washed my hands, I prepared to face my Dominican mother. In my head, I ran over what I would say to her in Spanish. I walked out of the bathroom with purpose yet with embarrassment following close behind. My mami bustled around the kitchen. I approached her and with great eloquence said, “uh…..” She looked up at me with a sweet patience mixed with a tad bit of confusion.

Suddenly, I realized that I had absolutely no idea how to say, “I plugged the toilet” in Spanish. I did not even know the world for toilet. I was in deep doo-doo, more so than I had originally thought. Through a smattering of hand motions and the word ‘baño’ repeated over and over, my Dominican mother soon became aware of the situation that I had caused. Apparently, the toilet decided without my consent that I would have the joy of sharing my pooping success with my Dominican family.

I’d like to report that I never plugged the toilet again after that first morning. Sadly, this is not the case. After the third time of telling my mami in Spanish, “La silla de el baño no me gusta. (The chair of the bathroom I don’t like)” I finally demanded to learn how to unplug the dumb toilet myself. The chair of the bathroom had it in for me.To the hoots of laughter coming from my roommate, mami informed us that the toilet often gets plugged and it’s not just me.

It seems that one does not become fluent in Spanish just from sleeping in a Dominican bed. I’m certain that I heard my bubble burst somewhere during that entire event. Welcome to reality.

The Fart Heard Around the Classroom

In middle school during my one year of “real” school, I attended a small Christian academy. Sixth grade is a ruthless year since everyone is bursting with hormones. Girls desperately desire to be women in the physical sense while boys are just beginning to really notice the girls around them. Sadly, these boys do not really catch up with the girls even in height until high school. I noticed this since I was the second tallest girl in my classroom. I mean it was great if I wanted to glare down a boy, but goo-goo eyes really had no effect since he’d have to look up at me. It kind of kills a guy’s macho manliness especially when they fight so hard for that reputation.

One day in my science class, I’m listening to the teacher intently from the first row. As much as I liked being near to the teacher, I hated the fact that I missed the shenanigans in the back of the classroom. Suddenly, in the deep realms of my intestines, I felt an ominous rumbling. Desperation pumped through my veins.

The unthinkable happened.

I farted in class.

The fart resounded like a gong as it exploded from my body. I froze as the horrid silence that follows such an embarrassment sizzled through the room. Humiliated, I waited tentatively for rejection by my classmates. The titters slowly took over the room as people recovered from their shock.

“Who farted?!” the class clown exclaimed.

I shrunk in my seat. Then, survival mode kicked in. My chin came up and I turned around in my seat surveying my classmate with a pretend confused shock in my eyes. The teacher had momentarily quieted in response to my mountainous fart.

My stomach squirmed as my nose made note of the toxic fumes that had escaped my body. Alarmed, I felt horrible for the boy sitting behind me. Secretly, I think he kind of liked me. Of course, I doubted he’d like me after being caught in my cloud of fart.

Surely, everyone knew the fart was mine. If the others didn’t, the boy behind me knew. Slowly, my body heat rose as my worry heightened. My classmates would find out the perpetrator soon and I would never live it down.

“It was Mark! Mark farted!!” The class clown declared.

My breath caught. The blame fell onto the boy sitting behind me. Simultaneously, relief and guilt spilled through my tense muscles.

The teacher called the class back to order and we turned back to the lesson. My brain apologized a million times to Mark, but my lips stayed sealed.

Mark never told.

When I think of that moment, I wish I could thank Mark for taking the blame for the fart heard around the classroom. He knew who farted, but he didn’t share it with my class. My humiliation never occurred. My guilt has subsided to be replaced by a huge gratitude.