As told to Jessica Galliart, @jessicagalliart
3:18 PM CST, January 29, 2013
Not everyone has been on a great date, but we've all definitely been on bad ones. This is a story about one of those dates.
I met this guy through a good friend and we went out a few times. I liked him, which was rare for me, because I’m super picky. Anyway, I lost a bet we made on a Cubs series, so I had to plan the next date. I decided to take him to this charity event with the Cubs, since he was a fan. It was a casino night (fun) and an open bar (even more fun).
So we get all dressed up and go, and it’s a blast. Throughout the evening, I say “Hey, look at that food, should we eat some?” He says something to the effect of “Nah, let’s keep doing this…” At this point, I probably should have said, “Hey, I came from work and I need food in my stomach to go with all this red wine.” But I didn’t.
Long story short, we have a great time. We decide that since we won all kinds of fake money at the charity casino night, we should drive to a real casino. So we get in my car and head to Indiana. (I’m the passenger because I was drunk--responsible!) And...the Skyway is closed. It’s never closed, but it is on this night. So I’m on my iPhone trying to figure out how to how to navigate our way around it.
On a system full of red wine and a stomach not full with food, my recurring carsickness begins to creep up on me in the worst way. My date looks at me and asks, “Are you OK? Are you going to be sick?” I say yes. Then projectile vomit red wine all over myself and my own car.
I can think of very very few things more unattractive than watching someone puke, especially on themselves and especially on a date. So I try to casually brush it off (how? impossible) so we can keep going (“Hey, I feel better!”), but then we turn around and he pulls the car over somewhere near the Indiana border. I get out of the car, take off the leggings (OK, Spanx) under my dress and leave them on the side of the road, thinking that I had now resolved the puke problem. Dignity restored. I assure him that my puke is now outside the car, on those leggings, so “We’re all good!” (Wrong.)
We end up heading back to his place--not in the sexy way, unfortunately--and as we get out of the car, he asks, “Are you going to puke again?” I’m annoyed (with myself and this situation) at this point, angrily reply “NO!” and then proceeded to vomit on the sidewalk.
I sleep there at his place, mostly because he didn’t know what to do with me, and in the morning as I get up to go home and shower for work--yeah, this was a schoolnight, kids--I say, “Well it was nice knowing you.” He laughs it off and says it wasn’t a big deal. We’re on good terms now (Hi, Chris!) and have mutual friends but never went out again.
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