By the third afternoon of my proposed five-day stay at the yoga institute, my stomach resembled the belly of a woman well into her second trimester with twins. It was rock hard and emitting sulfurous toots at inopportune times; during a rendition of a one-man play about Mark Twain, in the cafeteria, while vainly searching for wheat products, but my belly loved to go off in the meditation classes. This was tricky. Meditation was usually quiet. You couldn’t move around. The other students knew exactly where the sounds and smells were coming from. The meditation teacher took me aside.“Are you feeling okay?”“Do I look, smell or sound okay to you?” was my grumbling retort.“The Institute store has some herbal teas that might help,” was his kind statement.“I don’t need herbal tea. I need a plumber’s snake to unplug things. What the hell are you feeding us?”“I’m sure you’ll be fine in a little bit. Try a heating pad while you do some visualization.”I started to cry again. “Please air lift me out of here. I hate it. I’m not a good yoga person. I dream of cutting down penises. That’s not nonviolence. You have no bread.” I ramped up. “And what’s with the orange liquid? Do you have any laxatives, real honest to God laxatives, a stool softener, but no … herbal … teas and keep the massage therapists away from me … “I was screaming. I had truly lost it.“You seem a little overwrought. Is there someone we can call?”“No. There’s no one. A friend sent me here. My other friends think I’m strange. My fiancée doesn’t understand me. I hate him. And his girls are evil. I hate them. Why are you being nice to me?” (I wailed.) “Would you marry me?”At this point, I gathered up my yoga mat. Hitched up my thong and belched. My room was hot as I crammed stinky clothes into my luggage. I waddled to the front desk. They said a limo could be here in thirty minutes, but it would cost extra, and they couldn’t guarantee I could change my airline ticket. I said I’d take my chances and gave them my credit card for the limo ride.The service sent a different driver than the one three days earlier. He was chatty.“Downward Dog Institute, eh? I heard it’s fun there. Lots of fresh air and time to relax. They even got some masseuses. How’s the food?”“I’m sick,” I said trying to ward off further conversation attempts.“Sorry Miss. Who’s meeting you at the airport?”“No one. No one’s meeting me at the airport. I don’t even have a flight for two days. I just want to go home,” I whined and burst into tears. My nose was red. My skin was blotchy and covered in heat bumps. My stomach, hard and swollen to the size of an overinflated basketball, heaved and I started to retch. The limo driver looked terrified.“Do we need to pull over Miss?”“No. Get me to the airport as fast as you can. It’s been Hell.” I told him all about it, including the sea of penises, the flatulence, and the uncaring fiancée. He turned the air conditioning to its highest level driving with a little more haste.As I couldn’t see through my eyes swollen to slits or hold my luggage with hands slick with body fluids, the driver took my bags to the US Airways counter. He smiled sadly at the attendant.“She needs to bump up her flight. I don’t think she’s feeling too well,” he said.“Is she contagious?” she asked.“I don’t think so. Just out of sorts.”The attendant got busy with her computer. “We don’t have a flight for five hours. That’s the earliest.” She dared a look at me.I blew my nose on my sweatshirt. “Okay. Just book me on it. Can I get my boarding pass now?”“It’s going to cost an extra two hundred and sixty-three dollars to change your flight,” she said.“I don’t care.” She got the credit card going while I tipped the limo driver, keeping my last twenty for any form of laxative.“Take care little lady. Don’t let that man be bad to you.”“Thank you. I won’t. I want a guy just like you.” The driver shook his head and left me. The attendant checked my bag, printed out my boarding pass and wished me God Speed.I looked around. I was frantic. Deranged. A brave man came over. He asked if I needed something. I held his eyes. He tried to look away but couldn’t. I saw thousands of chemicals pouring into his blood stream, shouting, “Danger, danger.”“Coffee. I need coffee. Cream and sugar. And a bagel. Croissants. Eye drops. A trashy novel. And a toilet.” It came out low and guttural as I hunched over my grotesque belly.Silently he pointed to a Starbucks, a newspaper store, and the woman’s restroom.
Source: The No Good, Very Bad Vacation