Adult in Training

It’s been awhile since I last felt like throwing up.  Even when I had the Lead Fist, I didn’t really feel like throwing up, I only considered “pulling the trigger” as a possible solution to my woes.  Last Saturday I thought for sure I was going to throw up.

Sometimes throwing up is expected.  Like when you have the stomach flu.  People expect you to be barfing your brains out.  A smart person keeps a bucket beside their bed, so that if they do need to vomit, they have a safe place to do it in.  Please note that after extensive research, I have discovered the following: A wicker basket being held up by your mother as you throw up over the side of your loft bed does make an ideal receptacle – seeing the puke run down her arms will only make you want to throw up more.  Also, if you think you are planning ahead when you are drunk by placing a plastic bag on your bed post before you retire for the evening, please ensure that said bag has no holes.

In college I used to throw up a lot.  My first two years of school I had no idea how to hold my liquer and no idea how to party within my limits.  Consequently, I spent more than a few nights hugging a toilet.  Three nights stick out for me though. 

The first was a friend’s nineteenth birthday party (that’s right, not even my own).  I was so drunk I didn’t even make it to midnight (when it would have been her actual birthday).  Gonzo walked me home, wrote her number on my hand if I needed anything and set me up with a barf bag.  I woke up to the smell of my own vomit.  In the night I had sat up, thrown up in my own lap, and then gone back to sleep.  I had also managed to throw up at least once in the bag, only to find that it was riddled with holes and now leaking vomit all over my room.  In addition to all that, I had drooled on my hand, and now had Gonzo’s number stamped at least three different places on my face.

The next was my sophomore year.  The Boston Red Sox were  in some pennant race or another.  I didn’t care, but my boyfriend at the time was a huge Red Sox fan.  After a night (and by night I mean a few rounds) of Beirut we retired to my bed.  Which might have been romantic if I wasn’t throwing up.  I was heaving my guts up while Jeff was rubbing my back and trying to make me feel better.  I will never forget one of his soothing lines: “Keep going.  Every time you throw up, the Sox score!”

The last memorable time I yazzed was also my sophomore year.  It was probably around March, and one of Megan’s friends had come up to visit.  I wanted to celebrate for her, naturally.  Only I celebrated a little too much.  Once again, Gonzo had to come to my rescue.  She walked me home – later telling me that the entire time I thought I was spitting ahead of myself, I was really spitting, and then walking into it, so well done me!  I went directly to the washroom where in addition to barfing, I also passed out.  Gonzo woke me up before she went to sleep, at which point I started to cry, telling her “I just want to go home!”

Ah, to be young and reckless.  Or young and stupid, to think that was my idea of a good time.

This Saturday I thought I was going to barf from lactic acid build-up.  That has only ever happened to me once before.  What was shameful about this was: the coach wasn’t skating us.  Everyone else on the team I was skating with was fine.  I was just so horribly out of shape, having not skated for almost three years, that I couldn’t keep up.

The point of the story: The coach liked me anyways, and I now I have a new team.  That’s right friends, after more than a little time off, I officially play hockey again!  And it’s a good feeling.  A feeling I was really starting to miss, but too afraid to do anything about.  But after a little gentle nudging, a more than a few pep talks, I was convinced. And I’m glad of it.