Some things I’ve finally grown out of

It doesn’t bother me any more.

I can be a passenger in the back seat and not feel the urge to hurl, pardon the descriptive terminology or the visual on this Sunday morning.

This occurred to me on a recent family fishing outing.

Better Half and Adam were sitting up front because that’s where the menfolk sit in a vehicle when it comes to traveling time — an unwritten rule in our household when I was growing up.

Daughter Sarah and I were in the back — the ladyfolk leaving the important role of navigating and leaving point A to arrive at point B to the other gender.

Off we went on what was a ride back a rural road to an even more rural setting.

I felt fine. No so for Sarah, who braced her stomach with her arms.

Nothing bad happened, but I knew immediately from a quick glance her way how she was feeling. Been there, done that.

Neither of us constitutes the first in the family for such stomach flip-flops courtesy of a car ride.

I remember well how my poor brother Jay had a very sensitive stomach and was prone to turn green around the gills on car rides as a passenger in the back seat.

A rolled-down window offering a gust of fresh air typically offered little relief. Neither did the distraction of chewing a stick of gum, for example, or thinking happy thoughts, a possible remedy I never quite understood, but when your mouth starts to water and you think, uh-oh, a desperate rider will try anything, I suppose.

Maybe a hamburger or milkshake wouldn’t be the best thing to meditate on, but whatever.

Such things were suggested, though, as we’d speed along, our father maneuvering the dips and curves of “the fast way to town” from Richmond to Steubenville — to cut across Alikanna was the verbal GPS of my youth, Alikanna being county Road 43, which has changed a whole, whole lot since I was little.

So I guess feeling queesy as a backseat passenger is one of those things I’ve grown out of.

Imagine that. I have persevered and advanced to the next level of something or other worthy of mention or acknowledgment.

It’s one of many things that now fall in the not-applicable category for me, a list that would also include:

≤ I don’t spend time tanning any more in the summer, and I don’t care. My legs are white — really, really white, and I’m fine with that. There was a time, though, when I would be fretting about that.

≤ I don’t turn my nose up at trying food I always have assumed I would never smell much less swallow. Avocados, for example, always struck me as yuck food, a funny texture or something, but now?

Me like.

≤ I don’t grow fingernails anymore and what is there never gets a coat of polish. I abandoned that practice a long time ago.

Now my toenails, that’s a different story — they need covered up to keep from being scary, like my really, really white legs, which you might need special glasses to look at, just like tomorrow’s eclipse.

In any event, have a good week and happy trails — whether you’re in the front or you’re in the back.

(Kiaski, a resident of Richmond, is a staff columnist and community editor for the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at