As sprays of pinkish fluid expunged itself from my esophagus, I became vaguely aware that we had guest over for Thanksgiving, and my pants were wrapped unflatteringly around my ankles. What I thought would be a normal bathroom trip became something quite different. In a matter of moments, leaving me precious little to time to pull up my pants and barely lift the seat to gain access to a greater bowl mouth for vomiting, the contents of my stomach demanded exit. In the back of my mind the though of a guest opening the unlocked door and viewing my purging sweaty body splayed out on the bathroom floor hugging the commode for my dear life as my white clammy bottom peered up at them in disgrace slipped through my mind. I have had finer moments.

Needless to say, the stomach virus put a stop to my thanksgiving gorging, and I spent the day in bed. No sweet potatoes, no pumpkin pie, no stuffing. A few soda crackers and a glass or two of ginger ale constituted my holiday feast.