A Christmas Story: In Which I Throw Up

I don't remember who set us up, but I was more than a little wary. I had never been on a good blind date. Ever.

Except then he wasn't all that bad. He was actually really attractive and fairly normal. Ya, we didn't have anything in common or anything to talk about (which gave each date awkward first date undertones) and he gave the most oddly stiff hugs ever (I totally wince every time Sam hugs Nicole on Beauty and the Geek because I'm pretty sure Sam and this guy went to the same hugging school), but we went out a couple more times anyway.

On our third (and last) date, 2 days before we both went home for Christmas, we decided to go to see the lights at Temple Square in Salt Lake. He took me to Olive Garden first (sweet, sweet Olive Garden) where I ate maybe a little too much of my chicken fettucini alfredo. And then we went to see the lights, where it was so cold we spent about 3 seconds ooh-ing and aah-ing over the lights before escaping into the visitor's center to warm up. I think I let him hold my hand in between buildings. If I did, it was solely self-preservation. Without some body heat I was going to lose all the fingers on my left hand and I NEED those babies to write (and type!). It was a desperate situation (Honestly, not all that interested. Because really? The hugging? Was so weird).

It didn't take us long to say, "Ok that was fun. Back to Provo?"

The drive between Salt Lake and Provo takes about 40 minutes. About 10 minutes after we got on the road, I started to not feel very good.

I weighed my options. I could A. try and wait the remainder of the 30 minutes home, try and survive the awkward door scene I knew was coming, and puke in the comfort of my own apartment. B. let him know what was going on and get him to pull over or C. puke all over his rather nice truck.

I didn't really like any of my options. Because A was not happening. I didn't have that long. B meant admitting to this guy I hardly knew that I needed to puke asap and we needed to get me to a gas station. And C...oh please let it not be C.

After a few minutes of really uncomfortable fidgeting a gas station loomed on the horizon, a nice short jaunt off the freeway. I said, "Um..I'm not feeling very well. Can we pull into that gas station?" So we did. And I ran. And I sort of mostly made it.

The rest of the ride home was even more awkwardly quiet than our car rides normally were. Plus I may have smelled like vomit, which didn't really add anything positive to the atmosphere.
I don't remember whether or not he hugged me at the door...I don't think he did (don't blame him. Vomit smell). And he never called again. And I was really ok with that.

But you know what kind of bugs me? That this guy has a Christmas story about how this girl he took out a few times puked on the way back from Salt Lake and he was so grossed out he never wanted to see her again. And, because poetic justice exists, he probably thinks I'm the weirdest hand holder he's ever come across. I'd rather be telling HIS side of the story. But, alas. It was me. I puked.

The end.