I’ve been silent about this issue for a while, but I think it’s time to come clean. Sit back and relax while I tell you the story about how I found myself in another woman’s dark hotel room a few weeks ago.
It started out innocent enough. A lovely friend from our little blog community was visiting L.A. for a work thing. She wasn’t staying especially close to me, but I told her I’d pick her up from the airport and we could go hang out and have a few drinks.
We ended up sitting outside on the patio of a brewery in a marina. The sky was blue, the ocean breeze was—um—breezy—and the sun was as intense as the fight for a parking space.
Eventually, we settled with burgers and beers. It was nice. Conversation was easy—after all, we’ve “known” each other for years. There was nothing uncomfortable about the experience except the damn sun. After two beers, we decided we really needed to find shade.
How perfect that there was a bizarre and almost totally empty little wine bar downstairs. We ordered a bottle of wine and a few glasses of water, and sat down to enjoy.
It was right around then that I noticed that the nagging little headache I’d had for a while was starting to intensify. I drank my water, but after a few sips of wine, my head strongly informed me that I should stop drinking. I’m honestly not sure how long we sat there. It could have been 20 minutes or it could have been an hour. All I know is that by the time we stood up to leave, I was feeling pretty woozy.
It wasn’t terribly far from the brewery to her hotel, and I honestly thought I’d be fine. I figured that after I dropped her off, I could grab a bottle of water and some Excedrin before heading home.
I made it approximately one mile from the brewery before my body told me that this wasn’t going to work. We were stopped at a red light when I spotted a drug store, and I told my lovely friend that I was going to stop and use the restroom there real quick.
I had just turned into the parking lot when I realized that I was going to be sick. NOW. My head didn’t care that I was in the car with someone I literally just met a few hours ago. I hit the brakes, threw open the car door, and threw up right there while stopped in the middle of the parking lot. I didn’t even have time to take off my seatbelt. I’m so grateful I managed to get that door open.
Now, imagine you’re my friend, and you’re sitting there in the car after a long day of travel and being social. You’ve had a nice time, but you’re really looking forward to getting back to your empty hotel room where you can have the giant bed all to yourself. And then the person responsible for getting you safely to your hotel starts puking. Fantastic, right?
I somehow managed to go into the drug store to purchase Excedrin, Clorox wipes, and a bottle of water. I cleaned the part of the car door that had not escaped my projectile stomach contents and popped a few Excedrin. I silently contemplated which would kill me first: the migraine or the total humiliation. Whichever it was going to be, it would be great if it could be quick.
My poor friend had a few choices:
- Run. Totally understandable. I wouldn’t blame her one bit.
- Drive. Grab the keys from her incapacitated tour guide and get behind the wheel of a strange car in a strange city to find a strange hotel.
I will be eternally grateful that she chose option 2. Upon arriving at the hotel, she suggested that perhaps I should come sit in her room for a few minutes until the Excedrin kicks in? I agreed. She went to the lobby to check in while I went to the lobby restroom and threw up.
You can’t take me anywhere.
This saint of a woman lead me to a comfortable chair in her hotel room, turned out the lights, and let me sit there to contemplate whether they’d at least give her a “fresh” room if I died right there in that chair.
Around 8 pm after a bit of back and forth with Catch via text, it was determined that I was in no shape to go anywhere, so Catch would drive the hour to pick me up. Saint Blog Friend walked to the store for some necessities for the room. I decided that being upright wasn’t helping my head, and laid down on the floor for a few minutes until I realized it probably wouldn’t be great if my friend returned from the store and found me on the floor.
Eventually, Catch arrived to take me home. Although I am always happy to see her, I don’t think I have ever been so relieved.
I’m still trying to sort out how to appropriately thank my friend for being so kind to me when I was at my absolute worst. She could very easily have ordered an Uber in that drugstore parking lot and left me to fend for myself, but she didn’t. I’d offer to name my next child after her, but she knows as well as I do that that’s an empty promise because there’s not going to be a next child. Maybe a next dog, but somehow I think that’s probably not quite right either.
In the meantime, if you’re headed to Los Angeles and you’d like to hang out, I’d like to suggest the following:
1. READ THIS AGAIN.
Still want to hang out?
2. Have someone you trust read this post and see what they think.
They said it’s fine?
3. Reevaluate your level of faith in that person.