Friday, February 10, 2006
I have a confession to make...
I threw up on a date once too.It wasn’t a first date, thank goodness, but that may have been better, since then I’d never see the guy again. This was a special date with my ex-boyfriend Alex, the night I was hoping he would propose.
Every Friday, Alex planned a romantic date. Tonight we boarded the Staten Island ferry for a free sail by the Statue of Liberty. I leaned on the railing and admired how the water rippled in the moonlight. But the dark, windy ride rocked us back and forth.
“Oh, no,” I gasped. “I think I’m about to–”
What was the proper etiquette for puking in your lover’s lap? Do I warn him? Should I yell, “Look out?” Or “Fore,” like in golf games on TV? Was it “Four” or “Fore?”
Out it came. I poured my purse on the seat and fished out tissues to wipe Alex down. When he motioned to my mouth, I cleaned my lips and chin. I tasted the corned beef on rye I ate at lunch.
Examining the vomit, Alex identified Russian dressing and cole slaw, plus the pickle that came on the side. “Sweetie, I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m more of a landlubber.”
Although his jeans absorbed green and pink pieces, and fleshy chunks were wedged in between his fingers, he managed to laugh. “You’d make bulimics proud.”
I wrinkled my nose.
If he planned to propose, my puke wasn’t helping. Once we were off the boat, the trip home felt like the longest in our entire subway-riding careers, and for once, the prize for smelliest passengers went to us.
We braved the night air from the 77th Street exit to his apartment, passing the strip of bars on Columbus Avenue. A girl threw up on the sidewalk, almost at our feet.
Aha – I wasn’t the only one puking away a Friday night. I felt better already.
(This blog is UPDATED DAILY by an aspiring actress who’s dated most of Manhattan.
No CEOS were harmed in the making of this blog – unless they deserve it.)
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet
