Ominous Happenings begin with Potato Salad

I am not even going to segue this:
I threw up all over Jackson Keverly!!

Potato salad, you are dead to me. Never again will I be enticed by your carbolisciousness.

Yes, and if this post sounds like a complete diatribe of self-pity and woe is me, well, can you blame me?

How would you feel after seeing the man of your high school dreams after a hiatus of seven years, and when it looks like the stars are finally aligning and maybe, just maybe, an innocent, non-committal yet I'm-slightly-into-you invitation to the coffee house is about to happen, you start to taste some potato salad and suddenly without warning all of that mayo and potato goop spews right out of your body and lands smack on your Adonis's Ralph Laurn Polo!?!?!?

Whyyyyyyyyyy, Love Gods, why?

And if that weren't devastating enough, both my mother and his mother ran up to the two of us, club soda and a flurry of paper towels in waving arms.

My Mom: Oh my gosh, what happened?
Jackson: I think I'm going to throw up...
Me: I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry (x 100)
Mrs. K: Oh dear, oh dear. Club Soda, Elsie? Jackson, take off your shirt!
Me: (In between the "I'm Sorry," ogling his cut abs). Oh. My. Gosh.
My Mom and Mrs. K: Do you feel like throwing up again?!
Jackson: Somebody get Elsie a bag quick!
Me: No, no. I'm okay. Now.
My Mom to Me: How could you do this? (As if I wanted to throw up on the man).
My Mom to Mrs. K and Jackson: She really is usually more gracious than this. (As if I were a rebellious teenager, purposefully out to ruin the family picnic).
Jackson: Whatever.
Mrs. K: It's okay, Sandy (My Mom). There's so little we can do to control these things. (Hellooooo. I'm still here!)

At that point Jackson and I were ushered into the house, where he showered and changed.

I was forced to lay down on the couch. And because they were out of ice, since it was all in the coolers outside, was forced to lay a package of frozen peas on my forehead, and was told not to move.

"Really, Elsie," Mrs. K explained, "you don't want to be playing softball or anything like that, not with the way you are feeling."

And that would be completely mortified with a side of "can I go hide under a rock."

I stayed on the couch for about another 20 minutes, then decided to leave a nice note for Mrs. K and texted my mother that I would be leaving. Then, with the air of one admitting defeat, got into my car and beelined it for the solitary comfort of my apartment, where I promptly hid under the covers, hoping that things would look better in the morning.

They didn't. But they do smell better.