I am never drinking again

As my mouth began to water I gently closed my eyes and tried to control my body with my thoughts. Mind over matter. Psyche over physical. I would be okay I said to myself. Just take a deep breath--and that's when I threw up on myself. One huge blow of chunks rolled from the pit of my stomach, marched right through my esophagus, and came crashing out of my mouth before I could consider holding it back and swallowing it down again. Actually, I did consider this daring thought, save face by swallowing my own vomit, and subsequently have to do it over and over again as my body continued to reject what it no longer wanted, but I couldn't. It was too much at once and before I could at least save my phone from the acidy mixture of food and alcohol, I had become some girl who threw up on herself on the NJ Transit. This may have been amusing if not for the repulsive smell that vomit seems to give off and it being a Wednesday night. As I stared at whole bits of string beans and green pasta I regretted the seconds I ate not too long before, I regretted the amount of alcohol I so willingly consumed throughout the night, and, most of all, I regretted ever being born. My melodramatic, selfconscious ways presented itself with a song and dance. Proud to let my friend, who was also hit with splashes of vial liquid, that this was the end of my life. "No one cares" she assured me. "This happens all the time, it happened to me!" She reassured me. "Who gives a fuck what anyone thinks." The assuring and reassuring continued as we tried using facial tissues and stolen Dunkin Donuts napkins to wipe up contents that were sitting in my stomach moments ago. And attempted to mask the pungent scent with lavender fabreeze, but it wasn't working. Everything in my purse was now tainted, including a book I had been reading for approximately 4 months and was determined to finish even if it took me years. And my favorite coat. My beloved, warm, sophisticated coat had now looked like the product of a girl who drank too much on a Wednesday night and threw up on herself during the train ride back home. I made my way to the bathroom, the smell of vomit wafting in the aisle as I walked through, and blew more chunks of green beans and potatoes mixed with tequila and pomegranate martini. This is the worst day of my life, I thought. "This is the worst day of my life," I said outloud. The reassurance came from my friend again as she choked on the smell of my throw up and cringed at the sounds it made as it splashed into the toilet. Albeit, the rest of the train ride was uneventful compared to Act I. I sat there with my eyes closed, overly aware of the way I smelled and the amount of throw up that was still sitting in my purse. And as the train pulled to our stop I got a brief sense of relief, a split second of tranquility, a respite because here we were. I was almost home free. I rushed off the train leaving behind facial tissues and napkins filled with vomit. This may  be the only time in the history of my existence that I will ever say I was grateful for the cold air. It filled my senses with crisp pollution filled wonder rather than rancid alcohol filled despair and it was nice until, "You feeling alright now?" This wasn't my assuring friend, no, this was a complete stranger. A man wearing a peacoat, who had seen me throw up on myself. Who had been forced to take in the retched smells. And at that moment all my apprehensions were confirmed. People saw. People smelled. People judged. "I'm never drinking again," I announced. And now I am stuck with a purse that will always have the lingering scent of vomit, a coat and scarf that desperatly need to be dry cleaned..twice. And two books that have been ruined for good. It's not the end of the world. And it most certainly wasn't the worst day of my life. But seriously, I am never drinking at a holiday party again.