I threw up on a first date last week, and it has changed my life.
As soon as I greeted my date at the brewery, I realized I had a headache, but I kept it to myself. We ordered a special beer; I could barely make my way through it (I hate beer, but thought I’d give it a try, because I don’t wanna be THAT person); he noticed I wasn’t loving it, so he nicely suggested we go somewhere I’d like for dinner.
We walk down the street, pick a place that looks expensive (YES! I LIKE THAT!), and enter; the place is so fancy that when they seat us, they balk as I place my purse (that I bought at Ross) on the floor by my feet. A waiter runs over with a portable coat rack-looking thingy and begs me to please hang my purse (that I bought at Ross) on it, then, relieved that he has saved my purse (that I bought at Ross) from further defilement, leaves the coat rack beside me and goes about his business.
Not feeling great, and wondering if it’s because I drank gross beer on an empty stomach, I reply with an emphatic YES! to all the food that my date suggests we order (oysters! ahi tuna! calamari! all my seafood faves!). He gets a fancy wine that he insists I try, and I order a fancy bourbon-with-an-orange-peel-still-smoking-inside-of-it. I attempt to make interesting conversation, but I’m not able to really muster up the energy; I can’t figure out yet why I don’t feel so great. So, he’s forced to carry the conversation, and I mostly nod.
Before the food comes, I excuse myself to the bathroom, just to see if anything happens. Nothing. “You’re fine, Kelly,” I tell myself. I return to the table, the food arrives, and I’m relieved, thinking it’s just what I need. I eat three oysters, then reach for a calamari. I put it in my mouth, and…burp. Not a loud burp – I’m not a MONSTER – but a slight swallow-burp, and I think, “Hm, curious…note-to-self: you might be throwing up later. But NOT NOW. You’re fine. BE COOL.” My date keeps talking; he loved the oysters, I tell him I did too; he asks me if he orders more, will I eat them? “Of COURSE!” So he orders a whole second (expensive) platter.
I reach for a second calamari, and another burp comes. This one is more scary. This one, I felt real movement in my throat. But I had JUST come back from the bathroom! If I go back again so soon, won’t it look weird?!…But, throwing up at the table will look weird, too…Do I tell him?…I decide to. I tell him I feel a little queasy, but I’m fine staying; I just probably won’t eat anymore (just as the second round of oysters arrive.) He’s sympathetic, but keeps talking, not realizing for a while that me leaning my head against my hands isn’t me listening – it’s me in agony. I finally state that I think I have food poisoning from what I ate for lunch (I’m an expert at realizing this because I get food poisoning about once a month).
He asks what I ate that was bad, and I simplify it by saying it was the chicken in my homemade burrito, when it really could’ve been any of the below contents in said burrito:
- The tomato, which was weeks old
- The onion, which was months old
- The lettuce, which was wilting
- The cilantro, which was black and slimy on the bottom – so I made sure to use only the ones on top, because I’m not a FOOL
- The canned beans, which were a few months expired, but WHO CARES ABOUT EXPIRED CANNED GOODS?!?! THEY WILL OUTLIVE US ALL
- The chicken, which was less than a week old, but somehow still figured out a way to screw me over
(…Horrified? Like I said, I get food poisoning about once a month.)
So then my date goes on to instruct me in all of the ways I should properly take care of chicken, when I’m all, “*swallow-back-burp*…um…I need to go to the bathroom.” I get up, and it’s coming. It’s coming SOON. I frantically enter the bathroom, holding my mouth; a woman is washing her hands; I run into a stall and let loose a torrent of vomit never before seen by human eyes, simultaneously flushing the toilet again and again, holding back my hair, imagining what the lady must be thinking. She leaves, and I keep heaving. I’m finally done, then I wipe off my face, dry the tears that always automatically flow when I vomit, gargle with water, make sure I don’t have lunch in my teeth, then come back to our table.
I give a slightly self-aware laugh, and say, “Um, okay…I’m…better.” I don’t know whether he thinks I had torrential diarrhea or torrential vomit, but I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to clarify either one for him, so I just sit there weakly smiling like an idiot, waiting for him to say something. To clear the vomit from my breath, I take a big swig of my orange bourbon that’s been sitting there, untouched. To my horror, I notice that he has a new glass of wine in front of him, so we’ll be sitting there for at least another twenty minutes (my instincts told me that when I went fleeing to the bathroom, he’d probably be getting the check, but, no), so I lean my head against my hand and nod again at his conversation, only leaving this position once – to assure the waitress when she asks me why I haven’t finished my drink that it’s really good, I just don’t feel well.
We finally leave the restaurant, and I can’t believe that this guy has had a good time at all, since I spent most of the time preparing to vomit, then vomiting, then recovering from the vomit. He walks me to my car and leans in for a hug and kisses my cheek goodbye, and all I can think is, “Hope I got all the vomit off my face.” I drive home, puke a few more times, then go to sleep, expecting never to hear from him again.
The next day, he sends a million texts checking on me, making sure I’m okay, and naming fifty things we could do for our second date. Wait…HE WANTS A SECOND DATE?
This can only mean one thing, you guys: I’M WAY HOTTER THAN I REALIZED.
Like, super-duper hot.
I’m going to throw away all the extensive data from other parts of my life that don’t support this conclusion and just focus on this one experience, which proves: I am SO MOTHERF*CKING HOT that I can ruin a date by vomiting and/or sh*tting myself blind and men will still want me.
Do you have any idea what kind of boost this does to my self-confidence? Why didn’t any of you tell me I was this hot!? You’ve been keeping it a secret so well! Probably to keep me from getting a big head, I’m sure. Well, cat’s out of the bag! My new life starts NOOOWWWW!