Top Vomits

Written circa 2014 when I was in my mid-20s

I have a history of public vomits. It began in childhood because of severe and frequent motion sickness. I had to bring a ziplock or Big Gulp (vomit receivers) on any car ride over 10 minutes. During my 20s, the cause-of-vomit changed from motion to hangovers, but the result is the same: many incidents of hilarious public vomiting. 

Vanquishing nausea is a formidable task. Well-behaved bouts recede over brunch with gabby friends. Others are more obstinate, requiring cunning and sensitivity to suppress.

My body makes very particular, often obscure demands. I need a croque monsieur and vanilla milkshake (sipped, not sucked by straw!). I need cheesy biscuits from Red Lobster. I need exactly four melon cubes, and oh god, not five. That would make me puke.

If I satisfy my needs precisely, the car-sickness or hangover dissolves, releasing me from wretched nauseous malaise. I have renewed appreciation for the vigor of normalcy, or physiochemical equilibrium. But if I mis-shoot or overshoot my body’s finicky demands, I puke and spend the day huddled in uselessness. 

So here are my Top Five Public Vomits.

5) I was so excited to visit New York City for the first time at age 8. This was in the wake of Home Alone 2 so I insisted that we stay at the Plaza and was elated that we were actually staying at the Plaza! Maybe I would get left there and have to outwit loveable bad guys with booby traps!

But, uh-oh. The cab ride from the airport was over 10 minutes. I staggered out of the taxi and immediately puked from motion sickness on the red carpet of the Plaza.

My dad: “Jesus Bridget!  You’re killing me!” as he tipped the bellhop all his race-track money.

“Sorry dad.”

4) Another case of motion sickness: on the bus, during my 6th grade field trip to Gettysburg, in Trevor Levine’s baseball hat.  But it was Gill Helwig’s fault for eating Sour Cream and Onion Pringles.

3) I took a bar tending class my freshman year of college. I was hung over on the first day. We weren’t using real alcohol to practice mixing, but I was tettering enough that the mention of alcohol could tip me. And you know where they mention alcohol a lot? Bar tending class.

The instructor: “Bla bla bla rum.”

I ran out of the room, down the hall, and vomited in the bathroom. I returned to class.

Ten minutes later, the instructor: “Bla vodka, bla bla gin.”

I ran out of the room, down the hall, and vomited in the bathroom. I returned to class.

Ten minutes later, “Bla wine.”

I ran out of the room. This went on from 9 am until the lunch break, when a bag of greasy chips saved my life.

2) Skiing is a bad thing to do hung over (especially after drinking Goldschläger).

1) But that lesson was not cemented, so two years later I repeated the mistake. It was a surprising drunk night and a surprising morning. In particular, I was surprised to see multiple bread slices missing one bite each scattered in my bathroom. I must have tried to eat something before bed. I’m responsible like that.

It was 7 am. I was going skiing at 9 am and needed to suppress my queasy harbinger of a hangover. I needed Eggs Las Migas from Lou’s Diner, which at the time was my infallible hangover prophylactic.  I needed it before the hangover descended and enveloped me in misery and incapacity.

The streets were layered with fresh, downy snow.  I tromped determinedly, but wobblily, the 1-mile stretch between my front door and Lou’s.

I sat at the counter and placed my order with urgency. It was 8 am, an unthinkable hour for students, when Lou’s is only populated by local residents. I expected to eat my eggs huddled in anonymity. Except the man to my right swiveled toward me.

“Hi there.”

I worked at the front desk of the Dartmouth tennis courts and this man was one of the chatty community members who played there.

“How are you?” he said with overt gravity and awareness.

“Fine.  I’m fine.”  He seemed oddly sympathetic towards my impending hangover.

“You know, it’s none of my business…”

“I’m fine.”  Did I look that disheveled?

“I just wanted to say that it happened to me too when I was your age.”

“Okay.”  Was I supposed to apologize or high five?  Was he admonishing or commiserating?

“If you ever want to talk about it…”

“No, I think I’m okay.”  No, I just want to consume my eggs in sunken silence.

“Well not to pry, how did it happen?  Was it sudden?”

“What?”  As sudden as two games of beer pong and countless blurry blue mixed drinks.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if the death was sudden or from something chronic because my father was just out of the blue. Healthy and laughing one day, gone the next.”

It dawned on me that he mistook me for another front desk worker whose father had recently died. I thought we were talking about my hangover and he thought we were talking about my father’s death.

I could not rectify the conversation. I was too weakened and apathetic from murky-headedness.

“It was a surprise.”

Some Eggs Las Migas and an hour later I was atop the mountain, slumping on my ski-poles like a lean-to.  I still felt blah, but was certain that the crisp mountain air would nip that away. I edged over the crest of the slope.

Swish, swish, swish.

The switch-back motion of skiing was too much.

At the bottom of the slope, I popped off my skies and scuttled as swiftly as one can in ski boots to the edge of the trail. I feel to my knees, dug a little hole, and vomited into it. I filled in the hole with snow and felt relieved, recovered.

I rode the lift back up, rejoicing that my hangover had lifted. I could live again! Fresh, sharp. I forged down the next slope.

Swish, swish, swish.

My hangover returned.

I got to the bottom of the slope, re-excavated my little hole, and vomited, again. I felt relieved, recovered, again.

I rode the lift up. I skied down. I scuttled to the hole.

I spent the rest of the day in the lodge, nursing some red Gatorade, bemoaning my state of being.