I’ve vomited in half the restaurants in Boston.
Actually, that’s an overstatement. I’ve vomited AFTER eating in half the restaurants in Boston. I’ve vomited inside of only a few. So far. This also applies to the restaurants on Cape Cod, where I got married, as well as our honeymoon destination, Hawaii. This was not the sort of action my husband was expecting.
To be clear, it’s not that the food stinks in fully half of our area restaurants. Nor does it indicate an alarming fixation on my waistline. It just happens. Sometimes there’s warning and sometimes there isn’t.
I’ve never found a correlation between what I eat and whether or not I get sick. However, the ratio of deliciousness multiplied by how much I enjoyed myself is always directly proportional to the force and magnitude of my post-indulgent hurl fest. That I might find myself doubled over the porcelain express fighting for consciousness actually says a thing or two about just how good the meal was.
In fact, it’s an honor.
As you might imagine, this has made reviewing restaurants a bit of a challenge. Thanks for holding out your ice bucket as I vomit in your general direction, as well as wiping up the errant splatters on your six-top, but your duck may have been a smidgeon on the greasy side. On the upside, they take my criticism very seriously.
As it turns out, this situation has a medical name: acquired angioedema. Translation: an unexplained explosion of the intestines. Like I hadn’t figured that out. Luckily, medication keeps it somewhat under control.
I bring this up not just for a possibly lucrative outpouring of sympathy, but also because the more I’ve discussed this out loud, the more I’ve discovered just how common gastrointestinal issues really are. Not a sexy topic. But the more we can talk about it like mature adults, the sooner we can erupt into freestyle oral ejection and projectile diarrhea with dignity and maybe even a little bit of pride.