I seem to have gotten to a point in my life where things that
used to, and probably should faze me, no longer do.
Yesterday I was walking my dog near Union Square and a
little poodle crouched nearby, so hopeful that my pup would take notice of
her. She did not of course, but I
stopped to scratch the ears of this pooch.
She peed on my foot.
I was wearing ballet flats.
Her owner was mortified.
If I’m being honest though, I almost didn’t even
notice. What is wrong with me? A little bit of urine on my foot? No big deal.
How is dog pee any worse than schlepping thru the puddles in Manhattan
after a rainstorm? I mean, there are
way grosser things in those puddles, and we walk thru them everyday.
Over the weekend I finally got to meet my oldest friend’s
four month old son. He is cuter in
person than in photos – and I’m not even a baby person. He vomited on me three times. The first time was a surprise, I felt the
warm goo slide down my arm. A surprise,
yes, but it didn’t faze me. I barely even
washed. Why not use the napkin in my lap
to just wipe it away? Who needs soap and water? Not me. The third round of puking was the most
violent and went straight down my shirt.
I’m not sure if he was hoping to send that milk back where it came from,
but, sorry kid - you got the wrong lady.
I wonder if it’s because I have a dog now, or if it’s
because I was a camp counselor? Or maybe
I am just immune to the gross out?
Whatever the reason, for the record Universe, I am not asking to be peed
on regularly, but when it happens, so long as I’m not wearing new shoes – I’m
okay.
