This morning started out all Supermanish. Even in the horrific throws of jet lag, I donned my gym clothes and went outside for a crazy workout with Eric.
We had very limited gym equipment, so we got creative with a heavy duty elastic workout band, a couple barbells, and various items in his in-laws yard. For the first time in my life, my little brother couldn’t keep up with me as we screamed at each other like drill sergeants during our full body routine. That felt pretty good, and I gloated like a brother should about it. After all, in 32 years he’s always kicked my butt physically.
But karma doesn’t like gloaters. At all.
Where we are currently staying, there wasn’t any cheap quick food like I’m accustomed to eating (hey, I’m an American and a bachelor!). But that wasn’t going to stop me from acting like a bachelor.
And so, in need of post-workout protein, I got a couple eggs out of the fridge, cracked ’em onto a glass plate, and stuck ’em into the microwave.
“Can you do that?” my older sister asked.
Being the second child, I have to prove her wrong in everything. It’s just the way it is. “Of course you can.” I omitted the fact that I’d never tried it, and set the microwave to 30 seconds.
It beeped and when I opened it, the eggs were still pretty raw, so I added another minute and a half. They popped and made a general mess inside the microwave but still weren’t cooking in the middle so I added another 30.
When I pulled them out, my sister made a smart comment about how awful they looked. “You’re just jealous ,” I informed her all psychiatristish. It doesn’t matter what they look like, it matters how they taste. Then I started wolfing them down like they were the best things on earth so that she would know just how wrong she was.
Except they weren’t the best things on earth. They were still a little runny in places, which I didn’t mention. And they tasted awful, which i didn’t mention.
And then we went on our merry way to London via train.
It was about two hours later that the food poisoning hit, and it didn’t hit hard. Just enough that my tummy was rumbling and generally uncomfortable. That lasted until lunch, where I ordered a club sandwich to hopefully help.
That’s when things really went bad.