This post has been kicking around as a draft for awhile, so I thought I’d release it out into the world….

Vomit is slippery.

This is one of those statements that I accepted as truth despite never having actually measured the viscosity of vomit. Nor have I ever had the opportunity to use alliteration to describe the contents of my stomach. Until now.

I, unfortunately, can attest to the fact that vomit is, indeed, slippery. And not at all pleasant to the touch.

You see, it’s allergy season. (Right now you’re probably saying “Allergy season? It’s not spring, you idiot.) Every season is allergy season for me, but the fall with its decaying leaves, moldy earth, and other rotting detritus wreaks havoc on my faulty immune system and fills my lungs up with snot.

Here’s a song about snot…

I suppose that by now you are wondering what my snot-riddled lungs have to do with vomit. My body doesn’t actually like having items other than air in its lung compartments and, in an effort to rid itself of the unwanted mucus, it decided to send me into a fit of violent coughs. Now these coughs sort of start at my toes and gather strength as they move upwards.

And I had a full stomach as I had just finished eating lunch.

And, did I mention that I was in my car on my way to work?

Yes, my clothes were neatly pressed. My name tag firmly in place, to the left, by my heart. And I had sandals on. This is important to note.

This particular cough started somewhere around my kneecaps. It picked up steam as it made its way upwards to my “guttal” region, stirring up my egg salad sandwich and chai latte. From there it escaped my mouth as an ear-piercing bark coupled with a gurgling and spewing sound. The gurgling and spewing noises were, as I quickly discovered, the by-product of a former sandwich exiting my throat at warp speed.

I know I “ugly cry,” but do I also “ugly barf?” 

When I opened my eyes (I believe it is dangerous to barf with one’s eyes open lest they are blown out of the eye socket altogether), I was shocked to see that my steering wheel was plastered in slimy egg salad stalactites and the sheen of bile. Bear in mind that I was still in the flow of traffic and that gripping a stomach juice-smeared steering wheel is like trying to grip another person’s tongue with your bare fingers. 

Look how happy this steering wheel is. It has likely never been barfed on.

Turning my steering wheel was out of the question. Thankfully, work lay straight ahead.

Somewhere underneath the self-loathing and disgust caused by the fact that my hands were mired in my own puke, there lurked a glimmer of pride. I had managed to keep my clothing and my car seat vomit-free. The only victim appeared to be my steering wheel. Surely, such accurate aim was worthy of praise — or, perhaps, even a celebration.

I pulled into the parking lot and began rifling through the glove compartment for a kleenex, a paper towel, hell, a well-used snot rag would do. Thankfully, a Wendy’s napkin presented itself and I was able to return my steering wheel to its former dry, vomit-free and respectable self. I had made it to work. No one need ever know that I had just puked in my car. Unless, of course, I decided to broadcast the fact. In my blog.

Unfortunately, when I placed my foot on the ground, it made a squishing sound. My sandals were laden in barf and I had thoroughly soiled my only napkin. I had no choice. Me and my putrid pukey feet would have to trudge into work as is. We would have some explaining to do.