The Streak

Cold sweat. Shallow rapid breathing. The sense of panic as the surrounding air seems to press against me. I reach out, groping for the wall. Once I find it, I lean heavily into it, hoping to steady myself against the spinning room. This is it, I think to myself. vertigo has beaten me - today, the streak ends. I wait. Gradually, the spinning slows. I focus on my breathing, trying to take slow, deep breaths. Maybe this isn't the end of the streak after all. I ease myself away from the wall and take a few cautious steps.

Back in 1987 I bought a bottle of wine. I don't remember why I bought it or how I picked it out. I suspect it was recommended by a colleague. I wasn't much of a wine drinker back then and my palate was decidedly unsophisticated. It was a white wine, on the sweet side. The bottle sat on the counter in my apartment for quite some time, pining for the opportunity to be served at a suitable occasion. What became painfully evident was that such occasions were rare occurrences in my life back then.

Finally, one Friday evening in November I decided I'd waited long enough. The suitable occasion would be that it was Friday and that the work week had been a long one. Plus, the only food I had in the apartment was a box of crackers and part of a brick of cheese - obvious companions for my lonely bottle. I made up a plate of crackers, each with a thick slice of cheese. I uncorked the bottle and poured a little wine into one of the two wine glasses I owned. I sipped. It was fruity and delicious, especially when consumed with the crackers and cheese. I curled up in my Pier One Papasan chair, plate of crackers balanced on my lap. I sipped wine, ate crackers and watched cable TV. This was dinner that night. By the time I went to bed, the crackers were all gone. The cheese was all gone. The wine was all gone. I awoke the next morning feeling nauseous. The feeling worsened when I got out of bed. I stumbled to the bathroom. I vomited. Then, I felt better. And the streak began.

Even though vomiting had made me feel better, I was still bummed out that it had happened. As far as I could recall, I had been vomit-free throughout the 80's up to that point. Four years of college had not been able to coerce me to toss my cookies yet, here I was, beaten by a cheap bottle of wine and some stale crackers. On the bright side, the incident did give me a clear stake in the ground, a starting point for a new stint of being puke-free.

And so it continues. My sons have never seen their father lose his lunch. My wife of almost twenty years has never witnessed me blow chunks. Over the years, stomach flues have occasionally ravaged our household, taking down all members. All have puked but one. One soldier stands tall, even while cleaning the messes made by the others.

This is not to say that I have not fallen ill. There have been times when I have felt absolutely awful, when I probably would have felt better if I had vomited. But, I've fought it off. I really, really don't like the sensation. Plus, I have my streak to consider.