Vomit Comet

One stellar evening in college, I became one. Sitting in Human Sexuality, I became aware my stomach was just rolling. I had already guzzled a Gatorade because of a headache and general malaise, sure my uckiness was due to some electrolyte balance.

Human Sexuality lasted three hours Monday evenings. I was taking it with my roommate, Shelley, for fun. (Pretty weird idea of fun… our textbook had instructions on how to masturbate. My eyes just about fell out of my head when I found that chapter. However, I attended a Christian college, and our instructor didn’t have us crack the book once. And, no, you pervs, I didn’t do any extracurricular explorations. Anyway, I digress.) I had no idea how I would last the whole class as waves of nausea continued to course through my body, those waves increasing steadily in frequency and amplitude (physics shoutout!).

Luckily, or unluckily, my instructor seemed to be suffering from the same complaint that I was, so after twenty minutes of class, she apologized, saying she hadn’t felt this nauseated since pregnancy and that she’d catch us next week. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn’t going to have to fight my professor for the trash can and began power-walking back to the girls’ dorm on the far side of campus, Shelley right beside me, encouraging me every step of the way. “You can make it!”

And I was so close…so so close…we could even see the dorm. But my stomach had other ideas. And right in front of the boys dorm, right in front of the main doors propped open to the foyer and a herd of guys hanging out on the balcony, I erupted. Mt. Virginia. Everywhere. All over the sidewalk. Boys scrambled for cover as they tried to avoid vomit ricocheting off the concrete.

And Shelley offered the one of the wisest pieces of advice anyone has ever offered me.

“Don’t stop! Just keep walking. Just. . . keep. . .walking.”

Walk and spew. Walk and spew. It was like some sick version of Hansel and Gretel—anyone could have followed my trail. Even a blind person. They could have smelled their way.

I survived the night and dragged myself to class the next morning, dreading the ribbing I knew I was sure to get. As I settled into my desk in my first class, I did have the joy of overhearing a plethora of conversations about my performance…

“I stepped in it…”

“And she just kept spewing everywhere!”

“It was soo gross. It was blue and. . .”

(remember, Gatorade)

After listening to the retelling over and over again, I realized something… they had no idea who it was…they had no idea I was responsible.

I have no idea why. I knew most of the boys who I had seen hanging out in the front before I started my show. Maybe my blond hair had been hanging down in front of my face. It was rather long. Maybe my face was so distorted by my “I’m vomiting” expression, I was unrecognizable. Maybe the Holy Spirit obstructed me in some mystical fashion.

Who knows? Who cares? The important thing was they didn’t know it was me. And I wasn’t going to have to transfer schools.