We grabbed a bag of cherry gummies for the road. I pulled one out on the walk home revealing an undeniably testicular silhouette and gave it a try, laughing at the sight of another one dropping into Nick’s mouth. (Sorry.)
I’m the one that requests that we go on dates. I think (know) we both would have been perfectly content to continue lounging on the couch eating peanut butter M&Ms and watching hour after hour of puppy and kitten programming on Animal Planet, but at 8pm I made the call: “It’s 8 o’clock on a Saturday night and we’re watching kitten shows. We have to go out.”
Done. Nick always gets on board with my schemes.
Come to yoga with me in this hundred-degree room in July! Go to a movie with me in the middle of a flash flood! Let’s go grocery shopping with my bike on top of your car and forget it’s there until it’s ripped off the roof by the top of the parking garage!
And he always does.
Last night was a cute, easy date–pizza across the street, a drink at one of the bars we went to the first night we met, candy for the walk home. In bed by 10p, easy. I love him. No possible way I could make turn this into a disaster.
It’s not a secret that deep sea and outer space are my biggest, most irrational fears considering I live nowhere near water and remain fully tethered to the ground (thanks, gravity). Still, the very idea of a lack of oxygen unhinges me. There is, in my opinion, nothing more terrifying than being aware enough to know you need air but endangered enough to not get it.
And that’s exactly what happened when I laughed at Nick eating the cherry balls and consequently lodged a pair into my own airway. The karma!
I’ve never been in this situation before where you need to breathe but you can’t. Turns out it sucks as much as I feared. Tried to cough, couldn’t. Tried to swallow, couldn’t. Panic started to rise.
He looked at me flailing around, banging on my chest, trying to get the point across, and in what felt like forever but was probably five seconds, reasoned with himself: “You’re fucking with me. You’re serious? You’re fucking with me. You’re serious. YOU’RE SERIOUS.”
And that’s the story of how my boyfriend gave me the heimlich for the first and hopefully last time in our lives.
He’s never done it before and admitted after I successfully did not die that he had no idea what he was doing, but I was never really that worried. As terrifying as the no breathing thing is, I just knew I was fine. Because the thing about Nick is that I know he’s got me. And I mean that in every way it could be interpreted.
Later that night I asked (idiotically) where the cherries had gone and he said without skipping a beat, “I threw them away.”
I love him.