I need to learn how to spit.
I was driving on the highway- late for work per usual, windows rolled down because I don't have air conditioning and in Texas it hits 99 degrees at 8:30 in the fucking morning. CHiPs sunglasses sheilding my retinas from the sun. Working gal clothes still damp from the new wrinkle release spray I bought. (Note: I think you really have to follow the directions and actually spray the clothing while it's on a hanger. If you spray it while the clothes are on your body- well, the wrinkles won't go away, but rather cling to your person like you're one of those cellophane wrapped easter baskets you can get at Wal-Mart. Very classy sassy. I live the classy sassy.) CD player soothing my newly awakened body with the classic tunes of Kenny Rogers. I'm doing my best version of 'Lady', letting the world know that I'm their Knight in Shining armor and I love them.
Then I get it. That phlegm bubble in the back of my throat. The kind that changes your singing range from the husky Kenny Rogers sound to the more gurgly bubble sound your Grandmother sometimes gets when she talks. Do you know what I mean? It's that kind of voice that is hampered by a wall of snot and when Grandma's talking everyone around is trying to drop subtle hints by going 'ahem' but Grandma keeps on babbling about how she's missing her belly button because it was removed when she had the surgery that took away her womanly parts.
I can't stand phlegm. Even typing the word makes me dry heave a little bit. So when I feel that wall of snot going on in the back of my throat, I have to get it out fast. I cough it up.
It's sitting there in my mouth while I look around my car for something to spit it into. Nothing. There's nothing available.
There's a sock. There's a towel in the back seat. There's a special note from my Mom that says "I love you. You are my favorite daughter." I can't spit into anything around me!
That's when I know that I'm going to have to spit out of my car window. I have to. There's no other option- except swallowing- and just typing that made me lean over my chair a little bit to control a wretch.
I start building myself up for it. I work my lips a little bit to make sure I have the proper lip propulsion action going on. I lean my head in the proper direction and I get my tongue ready to block the air pipe.
And I spit.
All over myself.
Because I'm on the fucking highway driving at 75 MPH. I did not take this into account.
Now here's the problem. It's hanging on my face. It's tethered to my bottom lip and it's blowing and twisting in the wind. (It was a very large package of phlegm.)
The guy in the car next to me makes a non-chalant glance at the retarded girl driving the Honda next to him. "I'm so glad they gave the mentally retarded the opportunity to feel the glorious feeling of freedom behind a wheel. She must think she's a puppy dog. That's cute."
I don't know what to do. I don't want to touch it. I can't take my hands off the steering wheel. So I whip my head back and forth a little bit as to shake the offending phlegm string free. But this only causes it to spread across my chin and flecks of phlegm hit my CHiPs sunglasses.
That's when I finally give in and wipe my face with the back of my hand. I calmly control the heaving feeling in my stomach and shake my hand, offending phlegm attached, in the wind.
It finally breaks its phlegmy umbilical cord and accepts its death on the Texas highway.
I squeegee my hand when I get to a gas station. Probably not the most sanitary thing to do, but Cheese&Rice, I couldn't stand the idea of walking into work with the dried up remnants of my spitting failure on my hand... calling attention to the front desk receptionist as I sign in.... making it known to the world that I'm not spitter.
I'm a swallower.