My body is doing another number on me. It’s one stress symptom after another, it seems. This time: gastric distress. Really, honestly, I’m sure you don’t want to read about this latest development, so you should probably just stop right here.

After the interview in Washington last week, as I was driving back to Portland, I succumbed to hunger pangs late in the evening and took the Cougar, Washington, exit from the freeway and indulged in a McDonald’s fish sandwich. I’ve had lots of these meals in the past, of course, but it seems the combination of the stress of the interview day and this particular fast-food fix were a potent combination. I felt ill almost immediately, but went to work the next morning anyway despite obvious intestinal issues. I only made it a couple hours before I gave up and came home, though. The bathroom here is simply more convenient!

Just when it seemed I had recovered from that episode, I went to San Mateo, California, three days later for another interview. I had been eating only the blandest foods I could find, so my insides made it through that meeting just fine. Afterwards, however, at the San Francisco airport, I needed to eat before flying home later in the evening (I had almost five hours to kill, given how my schedule turned out). I had a chicken-salad sandwich at an eatery I’d had success with on other trips. Well, approximately the same thing happened to my body, only this time instead of a half-hour drive to get home (in my own car), I had an almost two-hour wait plus an hour-and-a-half in the air (sitting in a window seat!).

I honestly didn’t know if I was going to be able to handle the air travel. I was queasy and needed frequent visits to the rest room. How was this possibly going to work?

I had no idea. But, if there was any chance that I was actually going to get on that airplane, there was no way I could cope with a window seat. Luckily, it was possible to get an aisle seat, so I snapped that right up.

I thought about alerting a flight attendant about my unstable condition, but decided against it…I’d keep this little secret to myself unless it became an obvious and disruptive problem. A risky, but, as it turned out, good decision.

Then, the moment I got on the plane (I was alone in my new row!), I put on my headphones, with my iPod set to one of my quieter playlists.

I breathed. And breathed some more. And continued to focus on my breath.

An hour-and-a-half in the air. Can I do this? Yes, one minute of focusing on my breath at a time.

When the flight attendant came by, I asked for a 7-Up, thinking that would calm my stomach a bit. Nope, it didn’t. It had rather the opposite effect, so I drank very little.

When we were doing our initial climb, the pilot indicated we were at 27,000 feet headed for a cruising altitude of 40,000 feet. Ohmygod, I thought: 40,000 feet up, 40,000 feet down. Feeling like this. Oh. My. God.

Somewhere, at some point, when we were likely at that 40,000 foot level, I started sweating a little bit. I actually felt a bit feverish. And, I just could have sworn that I was sweating out chicken salad. I was thinking that if there had been anyone sitting next to me, they would have certainly detected perspiration with the distinct odor of my evening meal.

Oh, but that couldn’t be. Who’s ever heard of such a thing?

Fortunately, the story ends well. I made it through the flight with no major impossible urges. My shuttle was on time, and it rushed me home.

Whew! What a trip…

…and for what? I got the rejection call from San Mateo earlier today.