I almost threw up in Chipotle today.
Wait, let me back up a little. I'm sick with this pregnancy - relentlessly, horrifically, crushingly sick. I have only thrown up once, but that is mainly because of my superhuman vomit containing skills. Mostly I just walk around, swallowing hard, trying not to smell anything, look at anything that might smell like anything, or think about cooked spinach.
Oh, ugh. *gag* Cooked spinach.
Where was I? Oh yes, so this has been my lot of late. I am queasy. And sleepy. And sort of dumb, but that's another post. If I remember, which I won't. But I am nearly 12 weeks along now (!), and just this week, I have started to ever so slightly edge around the corner into feeling better. So today when my mom offered to take me and my chiddlers out to lunch, I bravely said yes. (Yes, I called myself brave just now. I am EXACTLY like firefighters and soldiers and police officers who put themselves in harm's way for the sake of others, because I dared to face down a burrito. Totes.)
When we got there, I ordered myself a barbacoa burrito, and settled in with the crew to eat. Sitting at the table next to us was a young woman who seemed utterly FASCINATED by us. She openly stared as we sat down, and proceeded to eat her lunch like the entertainment she'd ordered had finally arrived. At first, given her youth, I assumed she was studying Tre, an uncomfortably common occurrence these days. But she was clearly transfixed by all of us.
I tucked into my burrito, and can I tell you? It was AMBROSIA. Just spicy enough, with all that cheesy, carby, calorific goodness. It tasted amazing, and I was thrilled. Just because you're queasy all the time doesn't mean you stop being hungry, see. My body is constantly, uncomfortably aware that I'm not eating enough, and it's an awful feeling. I try, I promise I am trying to eat, but blargh.
But then. Oh, then. I bit into a perfectly promising corner, and got a chunk of meat that was...texturally not okay. Texture is always important to me, even when I'm not pregnant. As a matter of fact, the last time Mir was here, she watched me picking over some barbacoa I'd made, carefully removing every shred of anything that could offend, texturally, and she suggested I have sensory issues. By which I assume she meant, "Oh, Kira, thank you for so meticulously saving me from those horrible icky bits, because they are so clearly bad and wrong."
But nobody with my food ethic works at Chipotle, apparently, because today my teeth sank into a portion of beef that was distinctly...fatty.
Oh, dear. *gag*
I plucked that bite out of my mouth with the sort of alacrity that has inspired the popular new phrase, "Drop it like you bit into an icky bit." Not as catchy as "drop it like it's hot," but more...HEARTFELT. But that didn't mean I wasn't immediately plunged into a battle to keep from losing my lunch right there, in front of God and that lady sitting next to us. I was sort of trapped in the interior of our table, and couldn't quickly and discretely reach a good puke receptacle, so I sat there and fought it. I took drinks of my soda, breathed deeply, and just fought it. I heaved, swallowed, heaved, swallowed. Mom watched me, holding her breath. Heave, swallow. Do you know what happens when you drink carbonated soda and heave? You belch. Loudly. Can you believe that none of my boys noticed that I was belching and trying not to throw up? I didn't get even one "Good one, Mom." What is this world coming to?
Finally I got the upper hand. I looked up, wiped my eyes, and apologized. Mom patted my back. I shoved my burrito away, feeling deep regret (it was SO GOOD, too!). And then I looked up to see the woman at the next table, quietly covering the rest of her lunch and pushing it away.
Is it pathological, you think, that I'm feeling guilty for ruining her meal?