Since my last post, I have been up to very little other than shoving Imodium down my throat like their candy and working out in the Not-So-Stankment to avoid any roadside bowel evacuations.
The causes of my stomachal 1 mayhem is unknown, but I do know that it hit me Friday night, and I am on Day 4 of random bouts of gut cramps, the feeling like someone punched me in the stomach2 and lonely minutes in the bathroom being forced to see my face in the mirror opposite the throne. I am simultaneously sick of these ongoing gut issues and of my reflection which I am forced to look at from across the bathroom. Side note: I need to shave and it looks like we’re out of toothpaste.
All excremental-talk aside, it wasn’t the greatest of 4th of July weekends, but it could have been worse. Other than Friday morning’s ride that was aborted after 13.5 miles due to nipple failure (the bike, not me), I didn’t get any rides in, but I’ve lumbered close to six nine miles and counting on the Dreadmill® as I try to sweat this semi-illness out of me as well as get back into my big man’s skinny jeans.
Lola being Lola.
I also made up some killer vegan baked beans, got to see mid-Michigan power couple The Brookensesses one evening, and watched Euro 2020 (in 2021). But mostly, I cursed my intestines and the ease with which they become irritated.
Looking forward to being illness-free in the coming day(s) and getting back out on the bike. Or at least going for hikes without needing to take a roll of TP with me.
Later.
- stəmək-i-kəl
- I explained my illness to Wifey and mentioned how it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach at times. She looked at me dumbfounded, and then I said, “Wait, you’ve probably never been punched in the stomach.” “No, no, I haven’t. Sorry.” was her reply. I guess I assumed that everybody has memories of being punched in the stomach (or balls) “for fun” on the grade school playground.