Friday was my sister-in-law’s birthday, so that night we went out for dinner and drinks and cavorting. I’ve been feeling very on-edge lately, so I found myself wanting to blow off some steam.
Three clubs, two beers, a shot of Patron, four gin and tonics, and one lapdance later, my steam was officially blown. And I was in some alternate drunkiverse.
I felt alright the next morning, though I was surprised to find myself in bed since I didn’t remember much after slurring at my cousins in the middle of Shadyside. I started drinking water and still felt okay, though not great. But I noticed that every time I talked or moved around I felt a little woozy.
Suddenly, I had a Bad Feeling. The thing which I fear the most was inevitable, but I felt surprisingly okay with it. I calmly went to the bathroom, removed and hung up my sweater, tied my hair back, knelt before the toilet, grabbed onto the adjacent sink and bathtub, and barfed and barfed and barfed. And barfed. I emerged sweaty, watery-eyed, and with an impressive red mark on my chest from where the heaving had thrown me against the bowl.
I schlepped upstairs, sighed, and announced to the husband, “I just yakked.”
However, I did not cry and I did not demand to be taken to the hospital, convinced I was dying, which is what I’ve done pretty much every other time I’ve vomited. And I hadn’t actually done the deed in many years.
All of this leads me to believe that, despite the fact that I mixed drinks like an amateur, I’ve grown as an individual and am, like, totally mature now. I own my barfiness, and that’s a big deal for me.
Also, after I had brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth out, the husband still gave me a kiss on his way to work, despite my lingering eau de spew. I think he likes me.