It first happened in the summer of 2007, after a transatlantic flight to my beloved Poland. I had taken this flight many times in my late teens and early twenties, but this time there were some significant differences.
1. I wasn’t drunk and spending all of my vacation money on Tommy Girl perfume and cartons of marlboro lights before the plane left the runway.
2. I wasn’t drunk and therefore a bit more nervous than usual, a.k.a, harnessing all of my willpower to not yell “Get Me Off of This Death Machine.”
3. I wasn’t drunk.
But the other significant difference was that, once I got off the plane, my body became confused and I felt as if I were in-flight for the next several days. It sucked, but hell, I was in europe so I made the best of it with some decadent pastries and violin sereranaded coffee breaks in the middle of bustling plazas that were so….European. It sounds tough, I know, but I muddled through.
The next summer, we found ourselves in upstate New York, visiting my cooler-than-yours-mother-in-law and her equally hip husband. We spent the days in their giant backyard, the kids riding a real John Deere Tractor, the thunderstorms and subsequent rainbows illiciting ooohs and aaahhs from four people whose only yearly winter preparation is to unearth the closed-toed shoes from the depths of our closets. Oh. And there was the matter of my perpetual rocking motion; back and forth, day in and day out, which eventually landed me in the urgent care facilitiy of downtown Plattsburgh. They took one look at me and dished out a generous helping of Xanax. Which for some idiotic reason or another, I refused to take.
In November we drove four hours to Kingman, Arizona to visit my fabulous father in law, and you guessed it, I spent the better part of the week sitting still on the outside, walking on a swinging bridge on the inside.
I’ve seen a doctor here and there. Gotten a CAT scan. Had my ears checked by my
primary care craphead. Nothing. So the symptoms eventually pass, and I move on with my life, noting that at this point, planes, train, and automobiles are out.
Fast forward to today. It is my seventh day of motion-sickness hell. I don’t know what happened last Monday afternoon, but I’m suspecting that I must have sneezed or I don’t know, woken up, since at this point I have a zero tolerance to motion. What. The. @##$.
Needless to say, I am miserable. Over it. Tired. Grumpy. Impatient.
Places to go, but too carsick to get there.
So pardon my tone, and forgive my bluntness,
but this blows.
Which, I’m sure, is adding to this crapfest.
So send me some love, just not via air, water, or land.
And get me a barf bag while you’re at it.