There are some things in life that seem plain unnatural to me. A large part of me reacts whenever I try to/consider doing these things, in a way that is most likely primal and self-protective. Simply put—something in me just doesn’t want to do it.
One of these things is diving.
I understand that people think diving is fun, and I would never begrudge someone else the pleasure of diving into water over and over and over again, but I just don’t get it, personally.
My cousin Sarah stood at the edge of the pool, her one-piece bathing suit dripping from previous Olympic-worthy attempts. “It’s not that hard,” she assured me. “Just arc your back and put your arms over your head in front of you. Then jump in head first, straight down.”
Ummm...go in head first? Straight down? I looked at her, and then the water, with uncertainty. Clouds rolling over the pool started to turn the water an uncertain shade of dark that failed to illuminate the depths.
Although I did eventually dive, I can’t say I loved doing it. Jumping into water headfirst is just...well, wrong. And when it’s diving into a lake, river or other watering hole that doesn’t have the reassuring “10 feet” painted along the side? Forget about it. Visions of paralysis and bloody head injuries dance around my brain.
Another thing that seems highly unnatural—When I first tried to do it, I never thought I could manage.
I was 11 years old, sitting in the optometrist’s room with the mirror, sink, and bright overhead lights. “Here you go,” my bespectacled doctor says cheerfully, handing me two small plastic ovals with numbers on them.
He peels them open for me. “See that little round jelly-looking thing there?” I nod my head. “That’s the contact lens. Now, I want you to balance that on your fingertip with the curved part touching your finger, like this. Good. Now, pull your eyelid down and place the lens on your eye. Then blink.”
...
Place the fucking lens on my EYEBALL? Are you insane? I look at him with obvious discomfort and trepidation. Aren’t we taught our whole lives to never put things in our eyes?
“Be careful or you’ll poke an eye out?”
“Stop rough-housing or someone might lose an eye”?!
This just felt so wrong. However, I got the hang of it, after at least an hour of agony and fighting with my reflexes to blink, pull my finger away at the last minute, and to not cry.
While I still hate diving, and the idea of putting a contact lens in my eye still seems unnatural, I can do these things now. One task that still eludes me from time to time has to do with a ubiquitous enemy: the Horse Pill.
The Horse Pill comes in many different forms—some seemingly innocent. I read an article in a magazine that touts vitamin and mineral supplements for everything from healthy, shiny hair to immunity boosts and more energy. Well, why the hell not? I ask myself.
I smuggle home the brown plastic bottle of pills and pry it open, a glass of water dutifully in hand. Then, I shake the bottle upside down into my hand and out comes...a fucking blue whale of a pill.
Taken aback and slightly fearful, I check the label. Yes, yes—it’s the Flax Seed oil that Dr. Oz guy recommended. But how could this be? Is there some sort of a height and weight adjusted pill size? Surely this version of the pill has to be for Shaquille O’Neil, because no one else has a throat the size of a fucking fully extended accordion to accommodate this nuclear submarine.
I place the pill on my tongue and slide it to the back of my throat. Then I fill my mouth with as much water as it can reasonably handle without spillover. I say a little prayer.
It may be telling to know that when I was about three years old, I choked on a Flintstones chewable vitamin. I hated the flavor of those godforsaken pills...”grape” flavor my ass. That shit did not taste like grape; more like a combination of dry dog food and Dimetapp cough syrup. So, I did what any respectable child would do when supervised and unable to spit something into a napkin.
I tried to swallow it whole.
Mayday, Mayday, abort mission...
I began to choke and fight for air as if I were pinned underwater by a wave.
I grabbed my mom’s voluminous 80’s sweater, her face contorting into a look of alarm. She throws me in front of her and makes a ball with her hands, pulling them sharply inward against my upper stomach.
After a few of these maneuvers, a purple object catapults from my gaping maw. Mom heaves a sigh of relief, and I gulp in as much sweet, fresh air as I can handle.
That’s the last time I take a fucking vitamin, I think to myself. (But without the “fucking” because I was three.)
******
Fast forward again to today.
Tipping my head back and scrunching my eyes shut, I fear the moment when I must hurl myself upon a sharp counter top corner, trying in vain to clear my throat of the Flax Seed pill with no one home to perform the Heimlich.
The horse meds go down without incident. “Thank you, Jeebus,” I quietly mutter.
Then, I look down at the kitchen table. Four more brown plastic bottles sit in a neat row, all varying in size, quietly taunting me like playground bullies. “Vitamin C” shrieks one. “B-6 and B-12 complex”, sneers another. I reach into each bottle, spilling out exactly one pill from each. My eyes widen with horror and disbelief.
All Horse Pills.
Every last one of them.
