The wedding was far more extravagant than I had anticipated. Growing up in a rural area, most weddings I attended featured self-serve kegs and chips. This was a whole new world. Guests were impeccably dressed, and the cake was larger than my first studio apartment. Women elegantly sipped white wine from fluted glasses, mingling amidst the stunning décor of the ballroom.
I had very little experience with wine—aside from some Boones Farm during my senior year—yet I didn’t want to stand out as the only woman drinking beer. So, I opted for wine, hoping to blend in with my boyfriend’s friends. Typically, I’m not one to worry about fitting in, but I wanted to make a good impression since I was with someone I really liked. Sipping wine felt more sophisticated than downing a beer from a solo cup, which is a common sight back home.
That night, I learned a couple of valuable lessons: First, it’s best to be yourself, as it can save you from future headaches. Second, wine doesn’t go down at the same pace as beer.
I lost track of how many glasses I had consumed, but by the time we were ready to leave, I realized I was more than a little tipsy—some might even say I was pretty inebriated. My attempts to appear sober were less than successful.
Unfortunately, we were traveling with my boyfriend’s parents, whom I had only met a couple of times. It was already late, and I hoped the darkness would hide my glassy eyes. We squeezed into the back of their minivan and set off for home—his parents’ home, where we were staying for the weekend.
Barely ten minutes into the hour-long drive, the overwhelming nausea hit. The sensible choice would have been to ask the driver to pull over, even though the thought of asking my boyfriend’s father to stop so I could vomit by the highway was mortifying. But my drunken mind was racing, conjuring up many terrible alternatives.
At one point, I considered throwing up out the window, but we were in the back of a minivan without roll-down windows. Opening a sliding door on a busy highway seemed like a terrible idea, even with the wine weighing me down. Finally, I realized that asking to pull over was my only option, but by now, it was too late. I knew the moment I opened my mouth that the game was over.
So, with little thought and even fewer options, I opened my $300 designer handbag and unleashed the chaos. It was like sneezing in church: I tried to be swift and discreet. I caught my boyfriend’s eye as I raised my head from the bag, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Classy, right?
His expression was a mix of horror and disbelief.
“I’m so sorry,” I mouthed from the back seat.
Even though the unmistakable odor filled the car, I feigned nonchalance. What could I possibly say? “Hey everyone, I just threw up in my purse. Now what?” Instead, I opted for silence, closed the bag, and held it in my lap until we made an unplanned stop at a fast-food restaurant, where I rushed inside to assess the damage.
What I found was a gruesome scene. My once pristine red leather wallet and my brand-new iPod were casualties of the disaster. I disposed of what I could and attempted a cleanup, but there was only so much I could do. I couldn’t leave my wallet, credit cards, and ID in a fast-food bathroom, so I had no choice but to take my “sack of sadness” back to the van.
The ride home was shrouded in an awkward silence, the kind that lingers in nightmarish memories. When we arrived, I tossed my purse into the trunk of my car. Despite my desire to flee, I was in no condition to drive. So, I stayed the night as planned, waking up at dawn and leaving before anyone else was awake—classic move after a mortifying incident.
Later that morning, my boyfriend called asking for a ride home since I had essentially abandoned him there. Living together at the time meant disappearing wasn’t an option, though I briefly considered moving away and starting anew. Instead, I returned to apologize profusely to his parents. To my surprise, they laughed and shared their own embarrassing tales while his dad made breakfast. (Note to self: Avoid eggs when you’re extremely hungover.) They forgave me, proving to be the kindest people.
The following year, I married their son, and this story has become a holiday favorite in our family. What was undoubtedly the most embarrassing moment of my life turned out to be a source of laughter, and I developed a healthy respect for white wine along the way.
For more on navigating life’s surprises, you can check out our post on an at-home insemination kit, which might offer some insights for those considering starting a family. And for those looking to boost fertility, this resource is quite informative. Additionally, March of Dimes provides excellent resources for pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary:
This humorous tale recounts the unforgettable experience of accidentally vomiting in a designer handbag during a ride with in-laws after an extravagant wedding. The author reflects on the lessons learned, including the importance of being oneself and the difference between drinking wine and beer. Despite the embarrassment, the night ultimately led to a strong bond with her boyfriend’s family, and the story became a cherished family anecdote over the years.
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