In the spirit of being newly single, I have been going on dates. As is the nature of the dating world, some encounters are more memorable than others.
It was a picturesque spring day, the sun was shining, the breeze was fresh, and everyone was enjoying the soft warmth of the air, good weather being a novelty to our city after a winter of endless grey rain. The plan was that I would first summit Seymour with my friends, Andrew and Dustin, during the first part of the day and then meet my date for yoga in the park and dinner on Commercial Drive.
The trek up Seymour was merry; we greeted everyone on the trail we came across with smiles and easy-going, friendly conversation. When eventually we reached the first summit, that sense of soul-quenching satisfaction arrived, and the brightness of the sun wasn't just a blessing and a gift, it was spiritual. Dustin sat on the first summit dharma-bum style while Andrew and I took off gleefully for the second summit, flinging ourselves down the mountainside, wading through the snow with great leaps, hoots and hollers.
At the second summit we roamed around like awkward, happy animals, chattering about our love for the outdoors and whispering a little about that feeling of loneliness we both have in the busy city down below. Wandering towards the outer rim of the peak, we saw an enormous golden eagle gliding in the wind. It is, I've been told, a very special omen to see a bird of prey in the mountains as they are said to be old souls. Other friends of mine who take to the mountains have spoken about sighting these large, majestic creatures who fly above the world, watching over us. After years of never seeing one, I too could finally meditate on the bird's silent flight and consider what it means to me.
On the way down we found untouched snow into which we could throw our legs and hearts, as though we could come out of it better people for revisiting what it is to be playful, carefree children. As always for me, it was with a little sadness that we arrived at the car and it was time to go back home. Despite this small regret, the joy of the day found us back at the house hours later where we sat on the deck with beer in hand, sunburns and sunglasses worn by all, still very pleased and cheerful about our hike up the north shore.
And so began the makings of my most memorable date.
Three beers down in my little body readily metabolizing the alcohol for all the exercise I'd had, and the degree to which I was already and unknowingly dehydrated. Three beers, buzzed, to be frank on the verge of drunkenness, and off I went traipsing through the city with a wild grin on my face to meet my date.
We met, and after a somewhat slurred apology on my part for being so prematurely intoxicated we had dinner (my meal: a salty vegetable pot pie) and two more beers, then went to a sunny park for a few hours of yoga. It was with the idea of watching a movie that we went back to Commercial Drive to rent a film. But first we stopped at a notorious Italian coffee bar where we drank large, rich, creamy Americanos and watched the old, creepy Italian men leer at the women walking the Drive and talk soccer amongst themselves. It was excellent. Nothing could kill my fervor for the day, nothing could slow the thrill I was riding from the beauty of the mountain, the eagle and the happy companionship shared by my friends, fellow hikers and first date.
It was during the walk back to his place when I began to feel it, at first a slam of fatigue, and then wave after wave of nausea. We arrived at his apartment and I saved face for about an hour, chatting and the like, but ever worsening -- becoming more exhausted and desperately sick to my stomach. You're dehydrated, you fool, I realized, and so began drinking warm water, hoping it wasn't too late to make a swift recovery as we still had a three hour film ahead of us.
We started the movie, not long after which I had to hold myself in the fetal position, unbeknown to him that I was not relaxing, but trying to talk my body out of all the panicked lurching taking place in my gut. I tried to take slow, steady breaths. I tried to think my way out of being sick, imagined that I could have a balanced, functioning body if I could focus hard enough on what well-being used to feel like. But it was futile. I became light-headed, the room began spinning, and my stomach started making sharp, short motions to eject its contents, all of which finally forced me to start thinking less on how to feel better, and more on how to go about vomiting on a first date.
"I know this is going to sound strange," I said to him. "But I really need some fresh air. So you just keep watching the movie, don't come out with me, and I'll be right back."
"Ok..." he said slowly and confusedly, as I got up from the couch taking my corduroy jacket from my chilled, shaky, sunburned shoulders.
And then I felt it. I was going to be sick, right then and there. In keeping with the theme of being a fool, I did not make a dash for the bathroom. I instead ran out the front door of his apartment into the second floor hallway where I proceeded to vomit all over myself. All over my hands, my feet, and jacket. I remember standing in the hallway with a large pool of puke in my jacket, held like an offering in my hands should any resident come out of their front doors to see my shocked, sad, and sorry state.
And then I was running downstairs, because there was more to come. I exploded out of the building to puke in the bushes outside the main entrance. When that bout was over, for fear anyone should be coming or leaving their home, I crawled my way to the side of the building to dry heave, and then vomit some more. On all fours in the grass, like an exhausted, pathetic animal, I finally knew that it was over. I felt so much better. The vile poisons that are beer and coffee and salt had all successfully vacated my body with relish, and had you seen me I would have been wiping my face off with a wonderful sense of relief. Pushing the puke off my feet and dragging my hands and jacket on the lawn, I stood there afterward for a minute as it dawned on me that it wasn't exactly over -- I had to go back to my date.
After being buzzed back into the building, I stood in front of the lobby mirror searching for any missed spots of vomit on my clothing. Luckily most had been projected into my jacket, but one clump I found just below my collar bone which I flecked off outside before climbing the stairs. Back on the second level I kicked the little bit of sickness that had made its way onto the floor to the side of the wall. I peered at it a while wondering if, should he see it, would he put two and two together? There was nothing more I could do I decided, as confessing was out of the question given my careful construction of appearing to be calm, composed and feminine.
When I opened his front door, he was standing in the kitchen staring at me.
"Are you ok?" he asked skeptically.
"Oh yeah!" I said a little too eagerly. "I feel great now. That was exactly what I needed to do."
"Wow," he replied. "I'm really impressed by how in touch you are with your body."
And so we began the movie again, as if nothing had happened. I sat for the rest of the night with a smile on my face for having successfully and secretly vomited all over my date's apartment building. To this day I'm still pretty sure he has no idea any of this took place during our first date.
ps - My apologies for not having any photos of our trek up Seymour, as I realized sadly that my camera battery was dead on the first summit. Here are some of my most recent photos of a jaunt south of the border with my mother. Tomorrow I'll be doing a summit in the valley, so photos of that and a post to come soon!
