vomiting, not dating

Come on, we’ve all done it — best beloved, haven’t we? Had a disastrous in-the-first-six-dates evening where maybe our nerves or our bev count outsmarted our sobriety and certainly, our mouths.

I’ve drunk-vomited while out on dates twice so far. Both times, unfortunate, of course. I mean, I never enjoy puking my guts up, but when you’re paying homage to the porcelain god with the knowledge someone new and fun is in the next room, someone who now probably is listening while you vomit because it’s an apartment and one wall’s between you and the bedroom where you left them in a hurry — well, it brings the regret and shame up to you in a big way, pronto.

This weekend I finally got to feel the spattered tables turn. Instead of me, getting turnt on one too many of Melissa’s killer margaritas against anticipation, it was my date who couldn’t hold his liquor long enough.

I think I made him nervous.

He had pre-gamed. He said he’d had three beers already. I think he had three, definitely — I think he didn’t lie to me so much as present a lower-bound perspective of his truth.

We were old flames. Three or four years old, depending where you measured from: spark, or flame, or ash embering? Back then when we ended things, he kept saying “not the right time.” In the moment it felt like an empty phrase he threw out to soothe his guilt, his affection for me in the face of his refusal to commit.

I wonder — I think if he remembered, too, this phrase, and over the years maybe clung on to it. I think he thought this was his chance.

And he built so much in his head — and it crowded his thoughts, and to quiet them all, he drank.

He drank until he vomited while I have finally hit that phase of life where I prefer dates which make me so strung up that I stay sober, for fear of the stupid stuff I’ve known to come out of my mouth or my actions, thrown around without thought, when I have a bit too much alcohol in my blood.

I have finally started to go on dates where I desperately want to remember what it is we talked about for hours, all the details, afterwards.

I have finally stopped having 90% of my sex drunk.

Every time I threw up on a date I have thought, I blew it.

I couldn’t blame the guys, either. I was my fault. And there was no way I could deny the depth of the turn-off. This time, I wanted to, a little bit. But — I think because I’ve been exactly where he was — there was no way I could diminish or dismiss him. His fear, his nerves, his miscalculation, his sloppiness.

I’m sorry, Chef — I’ve been there. But —

I am simply not the person in your life you think, or want, I am.

I’m not the end.

This is.