Spitting. One of the
many few topics, in which my husband and I disagree.
Specifically, the appropriateness of it.
He believes that phlegm needs be expelled. That it will somehow make you sicker to swallow it.
It must leave the body immediately. In the parking lot. On the sidewalk. In the kitchen sink. Out the car window.
Apparently every player of every Major League Baseball team in America is under the same guise.
It’s a wonder I’ve survived all these years – swallowing my own spit.
I guess it’s publicly acceptable because it’s “a man thing.”
But before I was married, I lived with a man (my father) for 21 years.
I know I’m partial, but he’s A LOT like Jesus.
And besides a sneeze, or sweat stain, or tear of joy, I never, EVER witnessed him expelling – anything.
I do think I heard him break wind once.
What if we applied the same spit logic, to other bodily functions?
What if passing gas was not only acceptable, but encouraged!
Before every at-bat. After every base gained. Into big cups in the dugout.
At least we wouldn’t have to step in that.
To be honest, I wouldn’t even know how to “hock a loogie” if I had to. Mine would be a weak, pathetic…pa-tooy.
The sharp-spitters I encounter (and live with) muster up the goo like Puss in Boots musters a hair ball.
And then somehow they compress it into a solid-ish object? Before shotputting it onto the footpaths of innocent women like me.
Like I want your DNA on my stilettos.
Maneuvering the corridors of a college campus is like playing Paperboy on Nintendo. Ten points to avoid the spitballs flying at your feet!
It disgusts me to my core.
I can promise you this. My son will never, EVER hock anything in front of his mother.
And if he does, I will scoop it off the sidewalk and shove it back down his handsome little throat.