Tuesday, August 14, 2012

How stomach viruses can be totally romantic and why doctors should never look like Matthew McConaughey.

Disclaimer: Though one might think it’d be hard to do while talking about the delicate nature of the inner workings of my gastrointestinal tract (you’re welcome, by the way), this post is a bit sappier than usual. You know, because I’m a skilled writer like that. Also, I believe I’m still dehydrated and cannot be held accountable for anything said here that I may want to retract later.

Ok, you may proceed….

We all know how I love a good romantic comedy. And God knows I love to get myself all wrapped up in a completely “this-could-never-happen-in-a-billion-years” kind of love story on a Friday night. However, after the events of this weekend, I started to think that maybe we’ve all been mislead into what we think real romance is.

I know, right? I was totally as shocked as you.

You see, according to what I’ve been told, romance should happen when I’m at the top of the Empire State Building, looking a perfect stranger-turned-soul-mate-life-partner in the eye for the first time, or accidentally getting my shoe caught in the cobblestone street and having my life saved by a handsome pediatrician who rescued me from a runaway dumpster. But instead, I think maybe I caught a glimpse of it during the high fiving and frequent napping that occurred this weekend.

Oh, also, having a GI bug really helps. Obviously. And ew, I know.

Uh, my pediatrician definitely did not look like this. Which was probably a good thing, in hindsight, since then my mom would’ve been taking us every week and my dad probably would’ve started to get suspicious. For very good reason.

You see, while CB and I had some big plans with friends this weekend, they all got shot to hell when my immune system decided to stop me in my tracks and keep me planted firmly within the confines of the 400 square foot studio apartment that my boyfriend so comfortably lived in before I came along.

I suppose it should be noted that, over the months, little pieces of me have crept into his living space – step by step, bobby pin by bobby pin – until all of a sudden there’s now a purple blow dryer in his bathroom and glittery lotion sitting on the sink. And that’s all fine. (I’m assuming. Technically, I haven’t actually asked.) But this weekend I think we jumped from “Sure, you can have a drawer” to “Uh…you might not want to use your own bathroom for, like, a while. ”

Yeah, I know. Sorry, guys, they can’t all be about Punky Brewster and Michael Kors. 
Also, CB obviously was definitely ok with all of this and didn’t at all once think about maybe still going out without me. And he definitely didn’t watch the entire video of “Call Me Maybe” while cleaning his apartment so as not to get infested with the swine flu I’d contracted. And definitely didn’t then analyze and describe to me the video at length while I laid on the bed trying to find a comfortable position. Because that would just be cruel.

But I digress. You see, guys, what I’m saying is this: I’ve gotten flowers, he’s cooked me dinner, taken me out on a date that isn’t Shop Rite, and, though he still refuses to hold my hand in public, has done all of the things that totally lead to getting lucky at the end of a rom-com. (Sorry, mom and dad.)

But while this weekend didn’t include flowers or wine or a date at a fancy restaurant, it did include a lot of high-fiving over the Mets win (we will not be discussing the not-wins of Saturday and Sunday), Gatorade runs, giving me the couch, waking up at 10am to watch When Harry Met Sally, and pretending not to notice every single time I got up to sprint to the bathroom during The Big Lebowski. Basically, it was filled with the kind of romance of someone who lets you plug your purple blow dryer into the light socket causing the fuses to surge while pretending like he lit all of the candles in the apartment for the ambiance of it all.

And if you ask me, that should totally be a movie!

With Ryan Gosling.

And me as the female lead.

And lots and lots of R-rated moments. (Sorry, again, mom and dad. Oh, and you, too, CB. My bad.)

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