I was a hearty kid.
A stocky kid. A kid with an iron gut and a properly screwed-on head.
I would have made a fine pioneer.
Then puberty happened, and I was transformed into a fragile cluster of bones, meat, and organs that couldn’t handle certain foods, severe temperatures, or stressful situations. Thus started my long and storied tradition of passing the fuck out.
I’ve had quite a few swoons, but these four were by far the most memorable:
The first time I ate turf I was at Ozzfest, an outdoor, heavy-metal music festival held on a blistering hot day. While a horrific, one-hit-wonder band played their single stupid and terrible song, I suddenly swayed and became one with the grass, pee, and cigarette butts.
Lesson Learned: Standing in one-thousand-degree heat, with no water and only a Tootsie Roll for sustenance, is not a good combination for sure-footedness. Throw in a seriously heinous radio single and the fact that I was wearing a tank top and only a casual spritz of dollar-store sunscreen, and I believe even the heartiest soul would have taken a dive onto that filthy terrain.
It was late at night, in the foyer of the apartment inhabited by the dude I was madly horny for. We held each other close. Our leather jackets rubbed and creaked against one another. Suddenly I almost barfed, fell backwards like a freshly-chopped tree, and landed with the top half of my body in the communal bathroom, the floor riddled with enough pubic hair to knit sixteen sweaters.
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Lesson Learned: Leather may play itself off as cool, but when push comes to shove, it’s always going to leave you with a swelling lump. On your skull, pervs!
I was on my honeymoon enjoying a delicious dinner, when my stomach expressed its malcontent with sudden searing pains. I insisted on hobbling back to our suite solo, where I swiped the room card the wrong way seventeen times, swiped it the right way once, and managed to barely make it to the bathroom before collapsing like a Belushi in front of the toilet.
Lesson Learned: When you’re having a romantic meal with your new husband in a tropical paradise, don’t order a steak the size of your face and then stuff an ice cream sundae down on top of it. Just because the rings have been exchanged, and your vows read aloud, it doesn’t mean that your newly-betrothed won’t hightail it out of there the second he smells the damage that can come out of your butt.
My co-workers will never forget the day I casually lurched past them and then abruptly did my best “loose pile of bones in jeans” impression.
Lesson Learned: Black coffee and stone fruit are never a good idea for breakfast. And when your guts are screaming, and you feel super woozy and light-headed, and all of a sudden you don’t remember where you are? Don’t get up from your desk to go figure it out.
So, there you have it. My most terrible tumbles, and their origins in heat stroke, lust, and tummy troubles.
Please learn from my mistakes. Keep your centre of gravity low. Stay hydrated. Eat clean. And if you do go down, never ever pop up afterwards like you weren’t just hugging the floor. The pubes stuck to your face are a dead giveaway.