¡Vómito!

Story Sent in by Charlotte:

In a college political science class, I found myself working on a project with Liz. I can barely remember what the project was about, but I do remember how cute, smart, and funny Liz was. I actually found myself looking forward to working on the project, over the course of a couple of weeks, as it meant spending time with her.

One particular Saturday, we were in a basement study room in the library, just the two of us, researching Marbury vs. Madison or Batman vs. Superman or some other Supreme Court decision, when she took my hand. It was such a sweet, simple gesture, and the smile she gave me, to this day, still makes my heart melt.

I can't imagine how I mustered the courage, but I somehow was able to coherently ask her, "Want to go out for dinner, after this?"

She thought for a moment, then asked, "Like a date?"

I remember nodding emphatically. My heartbeat must've been audible in China. She squeezed my hand, said, "I'd love to," and then she released my hand and turned back to her books and notes.

Forget about concentrating on anything, at least on my part. I began to sweat, and I felt slightly faint. Yes, it sounds corny, but I just really wanted this.

We went to a Mexican place, just off of campus, for dinner. I thought that I had my nerves under control, although I felt like everything I said to her, over dinner, was trite.

Dinner was served, and we ate. My stomach felt a bit sour, but again, I chalked it up to nerves. It wasn't until after we had eaten and we finally stood up that the wallop of nausea hit me like a truck.

My legs went weak, and I remember nearly falling over. I recall stumbling my way to the bathroom, nearly colliding with a half-dozen people, tripping over some kid, and smashing into the restroom at the moment that (it felt like) a week's worth of food bubbled up my throat and splattered against the walls, the floor, and myself.

I heard the sound of the bathroom door opening behind me, as I sank to a squat. I prayed that it wasn't Liz.

Liz crouched beside me, put an arm around me, and half-dragged me toward a toilet. I must've vomited at least three stomachs' worth of contents all over the place. I don't ever remember feeling that nauseated.

I do, though, remember feeling a curious sense of ease, as if I was beyond humiliation at that point, and at a kind of Zen. I had accepted that Liz and I would probably not be going out to dinner again, and that I was somehow cursed.

Liz, however, was great. She helped me clean up, walked me home, and didn't even complain when I barfed one more time, on the way back, all over her shoes.

I was definitely the bad date here, but Liz was a class act. She even asked me out again, and while nothing long term ended up coming out of it (she's actually married now, with kids), we're still friends, and I'll always be grateful to her for caring and looking out for me.