I’m allergic to chimichangas. Before you laugh, hear me out. A couple of months ago, we visited Chattanooga to see the aquarium and the IMAX. Afterward, we ambled into a Mexican restaurant and I ordered a chimichanga. I spent all afternoon vomiting. I thought it was a fluke, that only that particular chimichanga didn’t agree with me. Last night at Soccer Taco, emboldened, I ordered the chimichanga. It arrived, and I figured the rice was the safest place to begin, so I ate it all before turning to the fried, chicken-filled tortillas dominating the plate. Nervously, I cut into the crispy flesh of the tortilla and brought the first bite to my mouth. Nothing happened. Soon, the first chimichanga was gone and I felt triumphant. I raised my fork to cut into the second chimichanga, but the sudden roiling in my stomach seized me completely. My fork clattered to the plate before falling to the table. I bolted toward the bathroom.
Naturally, the bathroom was occupied by a stupid hussy in a strapless romper. She’d forgotten to lock the bathroom door, so I barged in on her and saw her in her beige strapless bra with her gray romper pushed down around her ankles. Her shoes were black, high-heeled, and strappy.
“Sorry,” I croaked, my hand flying to cover my mouth even as I slammed the door. Seeing a nearly naked woman in a restaurant bathroom was shocking, but the move wasn’t the dainty, dramatic ‘oh my goodness’ type. It was a practical ‘I’m going to vomit in this hallway’ one. I began to count the seconds, hoping that the girl would hurry the fuck up before I embarrassed myself in the busy restaurant. At one-hundred-seventeen, she stumbled out, smelling heavily of margaritas.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“No big deal,” she slurred. “I forgot to lock the door.” She gave me a friendly smile before tottering off toward her waiting party.
Wasting no time, I bolted into the bathroom and gagged twice before vomiting into the toilet. I could feel the blood rushing to my head, my face, where there would be tiny ruptured blood vessels later.
Clammy and shaking, I rinsed my face and mouth before heading back to my waiting husband. My plate had been whisked away and our check had been delivered. I sank into my chair, hoping that our bill would be settled shortly so I could continue to be sick in the relative comfort of my own home.
I was right when I knew that I’d continue to be sick. Nearly as soon as we walked into the apartment, I felt the familiar roil and bolted upstairs, where I promptly threw up. Unfortunately, I did not throw up in the toilet. I threw up on the toilet. And on the floor. And on the bathmat. And on a fluffy white towel. And on the side of the bathtub. And on the shower curtain. And down the front of my navy scrubs. I could not breathe. The orange vomit was everywhere, it was inescapable. Weakly, I called my husband to help me pull the soiled scrub top over my head without smearing vomit on my face. It was an indignity, as was cleaning the bathroom while he nearly ran downstairs to rejoin his mistress, the Xbox.
Once I’d thrown everything in the washing machine, poured two capfuls of detergent over the reeking mess and started the wash, I stumbled upstairs and washed up before dressing in my warmest pajamas and crawling into bed where I slept for twelve hours. I dreamed of chimichangas.
