"Babe, are you okay?"
"Ehm, yes. All is gone for sure..."
I lift my head up from the toilet seat to look at my husband who had been gracefully trying to hold my hair up. Though, I was disgracefully trying to wipe my mouth from any food remaining after my purge with a towel I found on the ground.
"I swear to God, I'll never ever drink again. In fact, I'll never eat ever again. Except for my mom's home-made yoghurts."
"It's okay babe, take your time. Your mom's yoghurts are the best indeed."
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It was the second, lovely, warm day of our getaway from work and our long-distance marriage in a beautiful port city in Türkiye. My husband Tom, sipping his cocktails in single gulps, was busy swimming and dodging the squirting water from kids' water pistols. He seemed to be having a great time. Seeing him happy always made me happy because he is the best.
Lying down in my lounge chair, fully covered in sunscreen and looking like a vampire out in the day, I felt elated. I've never been a summer person, but I enjoyed the first couple of days of the season with a light breeze and a merciful sun that wasn't planning to roast me yet.
Then, in an instant, I felt an excruciating pain in my abdomen, making me dizzy and wobbly. I decided to lie down for a few hours before dinner at the hotel restaurant. Tom accompanied me, and we took a refreshing nap under the air conditioner.
A few hours forward, I was happily chewing my meatballs and oven-baked potatoes, feeling completely fine. We mostly talked about how life felt easier and better when we were together. Somehow, the sun shone brighter, the food tasted better, and the water quenched our thirst and worries.
Then shit started to hit the fan (almost literally) in the middle of Tom's conversation about seafood preferences. There I was—getting poisoned by food, cocktails, beer, or whatever—about to ruin this vacation for both of us.
I rushed to the toilet, knowing what was bound to happen. I let it all out there. The rest of the night was spent in stomach pain, breaking wind (my poor husband), randomly gagging, and all the other horrible things people who get food poisoning go through...
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Things sometimes do not go according to plan, and I know that well. I've learned it throughout my life. However, this vacation was particularly important for us because we have a long-distance marriage. No need to sugarcoat long-distance relationships; they are downright crap. In my case, it's not because my partner is unreliable or anything. It's because all the precious seconds, minutes, hours, and days cannot be spent together. It’s simply painful.
When life throws shitty lemons at you, the best you can do is try to seize the positives of your situation and make the most out of those plus signs. That's exactly what I’ve been trying to do during our relationship, performing my best during the time spent without him, while still living with my mom at her apartment with our two cats—at the age of 29.
Over the past few months, in my pursuit of turning sour lemons into sweet, tasty cocktails, I threw myself into self-development to become the best version of myself. I wanted to ensure that when the right time comes to be with the love of my life, I will be thriving. Welcome to my regimen of morning ginger shots, daily mat Pilates, striving for a promotion at my crappy corporate long-distance job (yes, I also have a long-distance company I work for, with a boss and an assistant), evening weight workouts, cooking clean for myself, and hitting the 8-hour sleep goal to make my AppleWatch proud.
Not going to lie, it was going well. As a self-care junkie, it was safe to keep my shit together; I was feeling good and content. Then came this trip...
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Lying in my sickbed, I remembered a podcast I watched a week ago. A woman with her perfect postpartum body, cute and smart kids, and an awesome marriage was talking about how to be more attractive to your partner, using a black cat and golden retriever metaphor. Apparently, a golden retriever represents the energetic, outgoing, and playful partner, while a black cat is the one who keeps their composure, is less responsive, more observant, and definitely mysterious and alluring. Also, they never let a fart out or burp next to their significant other. I have a black cat, and I can kind of confirm that it’s true for her personality.
"There's no point in screwing up your appeal for the sake of humor and comfort," she said aristocratically.
I promised myself at that moment that I would take this advice and keep my bodily gases to myself and the bathroom. But life had different plans...
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The rest of the week was mostly spent in my head, trying to get over my frustration, gut bacteria, and sense of failure. What did I really fail at? I asked myself. Probably nothing. I simply got sick. But why did I feel like I had done the worst thing ever? I constantly apologized to Tom for what happened, much to his confusion. He didn't understand why I was saying sorry.
I felt like a failure because I had been led to believe that life was bound to be perfect. Do the right things, and bad vibes will not be around you. Whoever taught me this bullshit did a very good job, as I was completely in favor of it.
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On our way back home, Tom was watching some boxing championship videos on his tablet. For a moment, he lifted his head and smiled at me. He told me that I am beautiful and that he is grateful for the moments he gets to create with me. He did not care about me purging my whole belief system down the toilet. It was a good riddance, as a matter of fact. I did not need perfect trips to perfect places. I did not need my best version to be in the moment and enjoy life. I did not need someone telling me what I should be and how I should act. I did not need stupid metaphors to keep things in check in my relationships.
All I need are some sugar for lemonade, the pure existence of my loved ones, and my mom's homemade yoghurts to keep the gut-feeling strong...
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Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your comments and thoughts, so please scroll down and share them with me!
Until next time,
Ennur
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