overexertion

When I was in 8th grade, we occasionally had basketball practice on Saturdays to compliment our normal weekday workouts. Just as now, I loved basketball back then, but there were two main problems with Saturday practice: 1) I was fat and hated to run the typical end-of-practice wind-sprints, and 2) I was lazy and hated to get up early, especially on my only real day of the week to sleep in. Saturday practices were the worst.

My usual routine was to roll out of bed as late as possible. I didn't eat. I didn't shower. I didn't comb my hair. Sometimes I'm not sure if I even put on pants. Now that I think about it, things haven't changed much. Except that now I always eat breakfast.

We went through our typical practice, and I went through my typical routine of trying to get my abnormally large body ("Look at that giant tween!!") to do something that might impress my coach (it didn't). I remember getting yelled at a lot, probably because I 'wasn't trying.' It's hard to move as fast as the other kids when you're fatter than they are. I mean, I could do it for a while, but I could only sustain that kind of pace for so long before I needed some sort of ice cream sandwich or frozen lemonade. Anyway, we got to the sprints at the end, and I ran as fast as could muster. As usual. I took last. As usual. We circled around the coach as he gave us some directions about something I didn't hear: because suddenly, my head was swimming. Fortunately, I was in the back of the circle, so when I turned around and barfed stomach bile all over the place, it didn't cause as huge a stir as it would have if I'd 'accidentally' ralphed all over my coach and teammates.

I was pretty happy when Coach wordlessly went to get sawdust and a mop to clean up the mess. I thought for sure he was going to yell at me some more. He instead waited until the next practice, by which time he'd thought of some snappy repartee with which he could publicly ridicule me in front of the rest of the team. After all, it was my fault because I was 'obviously didn't try hard enough at practice' and was in such 'terrible shape' as a result. Gee, sorry coach Gleason. I thought I threw up because (a) I'm in 8th grade and don't fully understand nutrition, and (b) I was trying SO HARD THAT I MADE MYSELF THROW UP. Oh by the way, how did you get your (literally) 450-pound body into those tiny pants?

Kids I didn't even know teased me at school for weeks. Long story short: now I eat breakfast every day.

Which brings me to the point: today the heat index is 105 degrees. I took Barney, as I usually do, for a run during the hottest part of the day. Before the run, I took him outside to run around and play fetch. He was pretty hot and tired when we got home, and for a while, he just stood over his water dish huffing and puffing like the little engine that couldn't cool down. After a few minutes, he went to stand on the couch for a while. I looked over a little later to see him barfing bile all over it. Perfect. Nice job coach.

While Sarah and I were cleaning it up, I was keeping an eye on him to make sure he was okay, and he got a funny look on his face. He looked pained and uncomfortable. And I'm not talking physically. I mean emotionally. It was like he was about to commit a morally despicable act but couldn't stop himself. I asked him if he wanted to go outside, and he practically ran me over on his way to the door. Once out there, he looked around for a good spot for about 3 seconds and then barfed again. This time the sponge pieces actually came out, so I think he should be fine.

Moral: eat breakfast, not sponges.