Growth spurt - and I'm not talking about height

"Why do people say 'grow some balls'? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding." - Sheng Wang

WARNING: This blog post may carry disgusting content. The scenes in this post contain blood and vomit. If you're already gagging at the thought of what might be ahead, find someone else to read ahead of you to give you warning. Or swallow a spoon of cement and grow a vagina.

As I've gotten into my 20s, I've realised how people discuss being an adult more and more with comments like, "You know you're an adult when..." or "You know you're getting old when..." I think all those statements are superfluous and you might agree with me after I tell you my story.

This post is not blaming anyone. In fact, the people that should be blamed are car manufacturers, but we'll get to that point in a bit. I just want to say that I don't want to scare anyone and put them off giving blood. I think it's an important part of being an active citizen and if you can do, give it a go. The South African National Blood Service (SANBS) are a great group to support, because it doesn't cost any money - you only need to give up half an hour of your time and a unit of blood. The other group I want to shield from blame is Subway. I love you Subway. I am in no way blaming you for what happened. I think it was a series of unfortunate events.

A picture perfect seen before all hell breaks loose.

My plan for the day was to pick up some food for the Easter weekend so the parentals wouldn't have to rush out and think about dinner. Then my brother, Matthew, and I were going to go donate blood, because it's Easter weekend and prime time for blood transfusions thanks to some of the worst drivers in the world unfortunately owning a car and having a driver's license. So, we thought the SANBS could do with two units and we went off to donate.

The Hermon children are both useless at donating blood, because we both passed out. At least Matthew got though a full donation before fainting. I, however, had to fight to keep myself going and I wasn't going to stop until I filled that bag. Besides, I was pretty much all the way there, before the room started to look like a snowing TV set. It's at this point that I'd like to say a special thank you to the woman working at the SANBS donor centre at the Colony Arms. Two lovely ladies who patiently waited for Matthew and I to reach maximum up-right walking capacity before letting us go on our merry way.

There goes my blood and my vision.

So we got in the car to pick up some meat and Matthew had a hankerin' for KFC. We were on our way home and in the middle of an intersection when my Subway 'sub of the day' decided to come back on stage for an encore. I carefully lent forward so as not to aggravate the beast about to roar out of its cage and picked up Matthew's KFC meal. I gently placed his meal to the side and buried my head in the paper bag now sitting on my lap. I had readied myself just in time as the six-inch sub filled the bag along with a Bar One I had eaten earlier. But let's not forget, this was a paper bag.

I should have gotten out of the car as soon as possible, because that paper bag had no stamina. Everything started to seep out of the bag and down the sides of my thighs. The structural integrity of the bag was in no way capable of safely securing the contents of my stomach. It leaked all over my jeans, handbag (which was poorly placed on my lap, underneath the bag), onto the shopping at my feet and all over the passenger seat. With each round-about, there were three, I winced as the mixture of bile, sweet onion sauce and chunks slid down my legs.

I climbed out of the car to find my jeans covered. Matthew had to spray me down with a hose. I quickly washed up in the shower, threw all my clothes into the washing machine and set to work on cleaning my car. This is where my complaint with car manufacturers begins. Cars aren't built to be cleaned. Although, Toyota seem to be advertising some new ice-cream proof seats, but to be honest, a car that can be easily cleaned after a vomit comet would not just have my curiosity, but my full attention.

Credit and many thanks for this picture and now meme is owed to Quentin Tarantino for the awesome script and film, Django Unchained.

This little paragraph is directed at car companies: Think of the money you could make. If the kids of today are built anything like myself, then they are most likely prone to car sickness. Anything longer than a half hour drive could've resulted in a multicoloured nightmare for my parents. Holiday trips were carefully calculated: I had to be placed in the front seat after the breakfast stop and I'd remain there until we had reach point B. So if there's a car out there that can easily be cleaned under the seats and between every nook and cranny, you'd have soccer moms and road-trip dads all after one.

And this is where the "You know you're an adult when..." kicks in:

Like I said, I spent many years being the car sick child on long trips. And in general, I think we all have horrible memories of missing our calls with the big white telephone. But after they've wiped your face with a damp cloth and you've had a drink of water, our parents would just say, "Go back to bed, honey. I'll clean this up." In my case, it was always my mom who got up in the middle of the night to clean up the un-Godly mess that could only be made by Satan's spawn.

Now, however, that abhorrent mess with the power to make you gag even after you've heaved all you could heave, is your responsibility and no one else's. It's all yours to clean up and no one is interested in coming to your aid, as my brother demonstrated in his lack of interest after hosing me down. So I gathered my supplies for the long hard journey into adult hood.

I don't think people realise just how momentous cleaning your own vomit out of your car is. I've cleaned up my own chunder messes, but to actually scrub down your car and scrape up the chunks blown is quite a life changing moment. First of all it's your car. Second, it's your mess. And third, no one will ever be cleaning up after you again. This moral to the story will of course be shot out of the sky by those who can't stomach cleaning up their own sick.

After I'd packed the bicarb and vinegar away, and rolled down the windows, I went to my room and retreated into the foetal position. I felt so ashamed after the mess I had created, but then I remembered something that made me feel loads better. While I was cleaning the car, my dog Winston reminded me of how gross dogs are. He took to my chunks of mess like his four o'clock meal time. In that moment I realised that no matter how disgusting I felt, there's nothing more gross than the habits of our K9 friends. Cue link to the Oatmeal's "My Dog: the paradox".