I had the flu. Well, maybe it wasn’t the flu. It could have been stress. There are times when I am excessively stressed out that my stomach hurts and I get nauseous. I feel as avocado-green as a 1970’s kitchen appliance.

At first I thought that I had eaten something questionable, but after two days I had given up on that notion. It had been going on for a week. I didn’t feel bad enough to stay in bed but I didn’t feel good enough to actually do anything, let alone do it effectively. So I whined on the inside, annoying only myself with my self-pitying inner monologue, while externally powering on with my daily life at a maddeningly slow and completely ineffective pace.

I don’t enjoy throwing up, I’m not that person who can throw up on command as a party trick and remain completely unfazed (I knew a guy back in high school who could do this. I have a not-so-fond memory of finding his work on the floor next to my best friend’s locker). Nor do I have emetophobia  like some people I know, a phobia so severe that a ride on the Hindenburg or being drowned to death in a vat of hummus would be a savory alternative. I guess if you had to categorize my vomit tendencies, I would be the “sympathetic vomiter”. If someone near me barfs, I too will barf. I have been know to spew while cleaning up my own dogs’ vomit. And the sound, sight or smell of the aforementioned violent body function will send me running to the nearest commode, sink or behind the first available unsuspecting topiary.

I am relatively average this way.

As I lay in bed at one a.m., unable to sleep due to my intense queasiness, and going on day eight of this distress, I made a firm decision that, come hell or high water, I was going to barf. I was uncomfortable, cranky and sleep deprived. I got out of bed and practically crawled to the bathroom. I sat on the cold, yet soothing tile floor in my wife-beater and underwear and raised the toilet seat. Before I knew it, I was overtaken and the exorcism began.

Moments later, a searing pain shot through my face as if nails were being driven into my skull with a Brad Gun. It took me a second to register that the toilet seat had fallen hard. It had smashed down on the bridge of my nose. I pushed it back up with my free arm and, still vomiting, I was thankful that there were no witnesses to the humiliating mishap.

A couple of seconds later, CRASH! It fell again, the cold porcelain brutally assaulted my face a second time. As I sat cross legged on the chilly floor, puking my guts out, a fierce pain burning through my throbbing head, I was struck by a couple of things:

First, my ability to make a stealthy diagnosis and rectify the situation under adverse conditions: The toilet seat had fallen because of a trash can I kept on the back of the toilet. All the bathroom trash cans in the house were this way because of the dog, Kendall, a Jack Russell mix who had a discerning palate for used tissues and toilet paper tubes.

Second, this scene was comedic genius. Though wildly humiliating and extremely painful, I was now sad there was no one there to share in this truly pathetic yet riotously funny moment with me. I wished someone had been there with a video camera. Not really, but kind of.

I puked on, I held the toilet seat up with one hand and moved the trash can to the floor with other. As the beast was demoted from poltergeist status to mild apparition, I gave myself props for my innate ability to find humor in the situation and for utilizing my wicked problem solving skills under duress. I also recalled my favorite classic blonde joke:

What’s the best way to kill a blonde?

Slam the toilet seat on her head while she’s drinking.

Despite my dark locks I was now convinced through my sweaty, retching haze that, I may indeed, be blonde. It’s not as though anyone, myself included, has seen or can recall, what my natural hair color is at this point.

I crawled back into my bed, feeling better in some ways and much, much worse in others. Finally, after a week of horrific nausea I slept soundly. Victory was mine.

Upon waking the next morning, my head was pounding as I brushed my teeth, I looked in the mirror and came face to face with a hideous, bruised woman. Startled, I jerked my Sonicare from my mouth and spun around, I thought there was some specter of a badly beaten woman lurking behind me.

I turned back to face the mirror and realized I was looking at an unrecognizable, battered version of myself. This was a me I had never seen. My jaw went slack as I lightly touched my two black eyes, examining the varying shades of purple, blue and yellow hues with the tips of my fingers. I busted out laughing, spewing toothpaste all over the mirror, and cursed my roommate for being out of town, I wanted someone to share in my odd, inappropriate glee and completely asinine luck. I wanted someone to laugh at me as hard as I was laughing myself.

It’s been a few months since I fell prey to the porcelain god(less), my face has healed up, there is no more visible bruising.  But every now and again I place my finger on the bridge of my nose. The bone is still bruised from where the contact was first made. If I press hard enough, a small, sharp pain shoots through my right eye.

That pain is now an almost sinister pleasure, my own sick private joke that makes me wince…and smile.

TAGS: Black Eyes, Blonde Jokes, Brad Guns, Flu, Megan DiLullo, Toilet Seat, vomit

MEGAN DILULLO was born in Boulder and spent the early years of her life between a hippie farm in the mountains of Colorado, where she lived with her eccentric parents and a lot of goats (the subject of a collection of upcoming stories titled; Tales From the Dark Farm), and the Main Line in Philadelphia. She can usually be found somewhere between Boulder, Los Angeles or Albuquerque with her three pocket dogs in tow. Megan's non-fiction short stories have appeared on The Nervous Breakdown and Face Stories. She is co-producer of The Nervous Breakdown’s Literary Experience podcast and the TNB Spotlight podcast and does narration for both.

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 18th, 2009 at 1:28 pm and is filed under Nonfiction, Thousand Words. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.