I've always been a spitter. Or maybe not. Maybe I became a spitter when I became a runner. No one thought twice about spitting during practice; you run, you get phlegm, you spit. Unfortunately for me:
1. This habit has been deeply engrained into my psyche and is now a knee-jerk reaction.
2. I function with a high level of phlegm.
I honestly just forget that it is not socially acceptable unless I'm in the middle of a cardio-vascular activity. There have been many times at church when I'm walking between buildings that I'll let one fly without thinking. In a dress.
You can imagine my exuberance when I read Heather's blog about Finland being a spitting culture . We arrived and I experienced it for myself. She was right. People--young and old, rich and poor, unashamedly spitting left and right. Oh the freedom; oh the bliss. I was in spitting heaven. The other day a little girl got out of her car and hacked a big one right in front of me, luckily missing my shoes. I wanted to hug her.
Then on Thursday we left Finland and arrived in London. We were standing at a proper crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn. My nose started to tingle with drippiness, so without thinking, I emptied out both nostrils with a good 'ol farmers blow. That didn't feel like it did the trick, so I finished the job by spitting. My head lifted only to meet the eyes of two women in front of me whose heads were turned watching me. They stared uncomfortably as I slowly began to remember that I was not in Finland anymore. After a few awkward moments basking in their looks of shame, I wanted to mouth to them I'm from Wisconsin (and my mom taught me how to farmer's blow) or --if that didn't suffice--I just lived in Finland. Soon their punishing glares were over and the light turned. I crossed the street and said to Colby, "I just got a blog post idea."