I almost fainted one night this week after bending my injured elbow. According to my husband, Bill, aka Mr. Science, bending it may have released some toxins that had been stored up, toxins that went coursing through my bloodstream with malicious intent. It certainly wasn’t the blood-and-guts factor, or I would have passed out while bleeding on fancy towels.
Whatever the reason, as the gray cloud crept in from the outskirts of my vision and I slowly and safely dropped to the bathroom floor, I realized the depths of my Southern upbringing. All I could think of was the saying, “I think I’m getting a case of the vapors,” a most hilarious sentiment, and one that would have had me giggling on the floor had the crippling nausea not overtaken me.
I was fine a few minutes later, thanks to patience and a few sips of Coca-Cola. The dizziness retreated, and my Seinfeld-like eight-year record of not throwing up remains intact.
My inner Southern belle is relieved.
Entirely Adequate 
Pshaw! You sure do make your momma proud, girl! Now suck it up, and pass me some cornbread and that there pitcher of sweet tea.
I broke my leg while shopping in midtown one rainy December night. As I lay there on the asphalt waiting for the ambulance to come carry me away, I kept myself from passing out by wiping the cold rainwater across my forehead, collected from the fender of the car next to me. It was a near thing. Luckily, the car next to me wasn’t my own, or I would have looked like a late Ash Wednesday-evening smudge-fest. I haven’t washed a car since before you threw up the last time.