There was no reason for this AT ALL. Like, there's no way in hades that I'm pregnant, I had just two beers at Sunday Funday 12:00ish and nothing new and crazy in the diet. And plus, I NEVER get sick. I don't get motion sickness, I'm not allergic to anything, I never drink to the point of puking, I don't get stomach bugs (except once last year...but that was a crazy exception too), so I didn't really even know how to handle myself here. I still don't know why this happened.
I stayed curled in the fetal position for a while, went to take a shower and had to get out immediately after washing my hair to dry heave. I dried my hair while sitting on my towel on the floor, crawled to my room to get dressed, and just as Mark walked in the bathroom to fix his hair, I got "the surge."
You know "the surge." It's that wave of cold sweat that washes over you, the signature tingle in the back of your throat and the instinct to get as close as possible to a toilet or other appropriate vom receptacle.
The incident happened, and I made us officially 45 minutes late in heading to the AIRPORT. Yes, dear readers, I was up early because I was headed out to get on an airplane for an hour and a half to Washington/Dulles, and another five hours to San Diego.
Puking.
Puking BEFORE I got on a flying tube I couldn't escape from, complete with un-preventable turbulence, nasty gas and stale coffee smells.
I got on the first leg of my journey and asked the flight attendant for a couple air sick bags ("A couple??" "Yes, I've been sick this morning twice and want to be prepared!"), and my seat partner promptly moved herself. I couldn't blame her.
At the end of my journey? My company party at a SEAFOOD RESTAURANT.
I made it out alive, but just barely.
And that was the start of my first business trip to San Diego.
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