Ok, fine! You are a super taster

I shouldn’t have made fun of picky eaters. Oppressed minority they may be, they clearly have an “in” with some higher power. Just hours after writing my last post, I got a violent case of food poisoning, resulting in my spending half of my dad’s 50th birthday party sitting on the floor of a public bathroom.

My dad’s party was huge, 250 people or so, and many of the attendees were distant relatives or old family friends. I couldn’t walk three steps without someone stopping me to talk. Usually this would be a lot of fun, but it’s less enjoyable when one is desperately trying to return to the bathroom for another bout of upchucking. Strangely, the people who did manage to corner me did not recognize my distress at all. I’d emerge from the restroom and before I could find some water to rinse my mouth out with, a second cousin would corner me and say that I “looked great!” Seriously, this happened several times.

“You look great” might just be stock-conversation, but do I think that these people meant it. That’s because I recently became aware of how bizarrely I dressed in high school. According to newly unearthed pictures, I wore an oversized, silver blouse and pants combo to my dad’s (second) wedding. For casual occasions, I favored enormous men’s clothing, like big-and-tall dress shirts that went almost to my ankles; I accessorized with silver Doc Martins. I’m thankful that my dad allowed me to explore my sartorial individuality, but he could have also prevented so many pictures from being taken. I actually might have said this at the party, but I missed the toasts as I was napping on the floor of the lady’s room. (My grandmother is already starting a rumor that I had too much sangria.)