This week, as many of you know, was my much-anticipated, bright and sparkling bundle of spring break baby!ness. I had visions of closing my eyes and tossing a handful of clothes into my weekend bag, hopping into my 2003 Nissan (my eyes are open by now), and careening down the highway blaring "Danger Zone" through the sunroof.
Destination: who cares?
Expectations: 80-degree sunshine; a few minor bar brawls; highway hot dog stands; return with "Margarita" as my middle name
Unfortunately, none of these visions took place. I instead caught a case of the stomach flu early Monday morning and became ball and chain to my dear friend (?) Mr. Toilet for a good couple of days.
We know each other verrrrry well now.
I got a bit overconfident about my improving health around day 2/3 and decided to reward my finally(!) hungry stomach with a soothing, non-threatening meal to lull my insides back into normalcy. Who am I kidding, I got fast food. Yes, I know. A five-year-old would know not to do this. But it's obvious my sickness was more than just physical (cuckoo). I destroyed any signs of my renewing health and set myself back an extra day and a half. Well, hello again, Mr. Toilet...
Yesterday, I stuck to a strict diet of toast, rice, Gatorade, and ginger ale. Yes, even at a good-bye happy hour for a co-worker, I refused to cave, even as they ate the most delicious-looking, piping hot, macaroni and cheese, laughing as strings of it hung over their greasy lips. I fiercely sucked down 3 more ginger ales and proudly ate the inside of a warm sourdough roll. I think their laughs echoed in my dreams last night.
Today, I am at my best thus far. I'm already fantasizing about my comeback meal. I'm also still wondering if any of my spring break dreams are still possible. It is still Friday, which is still technically spring break. And "Kimi Margarita" does have a nice ring to it...
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