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Originally Written: 7/24/12

Last Sunday I caught a stomach bug. Josh and I had my sister, Rachel and her new husband over for a taco dinner that night.  ( In my defense, I didn’t know I was sick until late Sunday night after I had taken a sleeping pill.)  Luckily, there weren’t any accidents.  I tossed and turned all Sunday night, and by Monday morning I was using the bathroom every ten to fifteen minutes.

          I’m not a big fan of calling out from work.  I went in.  I worked through our busy hours and went home.   By this point I had quit using the bathroom so often.  I think i was just empty.  I crashed and slept off and on for about ten hours.

          By Tuesday I thought I was through with the stomach bug.  I went into work.  I worked a full day.   No big deal.  That afternoon I got a call from my sister saying she had caught the virus, only she was throwing up too.  It sucks that she caught it, it sucks that she was throwing up. What really blows is that she had to work a twelve hour shift in the hospital that night.  I was feeling a little guilty that she caught it from me, so I made a “get well pack” consisting of ginger ale, knock off Kroger brand Pepto, saltine crackers, and some Gatorade.

          Before I went to the hospital, I decided it would be an excellent idea to go for a 5 mile walk.  I guess this got my GI track moving.  By the time I arrived at the hospital I felt like I was about to have a gas baby.  Lucky for me, the hospital was almost deserted.  Most of the lights were off, there were a handful of nurses leaving, and I felt pretty confidant that I could let one rip without anyone noticing.  I got into the elevator and cut one loose.  The noise alone should have earned me some sort of honorary spot on an Adam Sandler album.  I started to waif it out of my skirt, you know, just to see what kind of damage I did.  Seriously, that was a kick ass fart.  My only regret is that Josh wasn’t there to be annoyed by it.  The elevator doors open.  Of course, I’m face to face with a very nice unsuspecting Hispanic couple.

    At this point I could have saved myself.  I could have come out holding my nose, coughing, or looking disgusted.  I could have said, “Man, someone blew this elevator up!” I could have walked out and said, “Sorry!”  But I didn’t do any of that.  I did the mature adult thing: avoided eye contact, smiled, looked at the ground, and walked out.

   I head down the long hallway towards the nurses desk.  I start to hear coughing and giggling.  I can hear them talking in Spanish.  Oh great, now they know. They know it was me! I get to the nurses desk.  I’m desperate to get out of sight.

          “Hi, is Rachel working on this floor tonight?”

          “No, she’s one floor up.”

          “Oh, okay.  Thanks!” I turn to go back down the hallway, and the couple is still standing there! They were waiting on the next elevator to come!  Oh my gosh! I’m going to have to get on an elevator with them.  I can’t do this! Something in me dies.  The overly insecure child in me will not let me walk down the hall.  I turn and face the nurse, but I can’t speak.  I just give her a panicked look. Should I tell her that I’m the one who blew up the elevator?  I should tell her everything.  Yes, I should confess everything.   After all, I’m totally telling everyone I know about it later.  This shit is hilarious!   There is an awkward silence. 

          “Do you know how to get to the third floor?”

          “No.  No I do not.” (I know perfectly well how to go up one floor! I just freaking rode the elevator up to the second floor!)

          “Well, there are a couple of ways…”

          “OH THANK THE LORD!” I scream in my head.

          “…You can take the stairs…”  At this point I am done listening.

“The stairs are amazing! I love stairs!  I’ll never take an elevator again!” I turn and the couple is still there!  Won’t they ever leave?!  They are still holding their noses and yelling, “WHEW! WHEW!” as loudly as they can.  Fortunately, I see the stairs to my right and dart in the hallway.  I’m not even sure if the nurse was done talking.  I race up the stairs.  I am overcome with relief of being out of the situation and start chuckling at myself. 

I find Rachel; she looks like she’s wilting.  I confess everything, and it’s already hilarious.  She’s holding her stomach, laughing, and telling me to shut up.  She even went downstairs to fill the other nurse in on why I was acting so weird.

I still do not know why I couldn’t own up to my own stench at the time.  Seriously, I could have made it all okay by just pointing at myself with one hand and waving with the other.  Oh well, maybe next time I bomb an elevator I’ll have the guts to own up to it.