Picture This Life

Elton John: Can you feel the love tonight?

No Elton, I could not. All I could feel were the persistent and overwhelming waves of nausea. I was 13 and it was June. The Atkinson family was at the local theatre watching the newly released Disney movie The Lion King. Tim and I shared a bag of Twizzlers and they were not agreeing with me in the least.

The hot, dark theatre was packed and I was sitting in the middle of the aisle. Despite sweaty palms and a quiver in the back of my throat I held fast, not wanting, or not thinking that I could make it to the bathroom without spewing a half bag of chewed, waxy red licorice on my way.

So there I sat. Clenching my jaw when the dizzying spells of pending puke swelled up, and exhaling with puffed, flushed cheeks after I’d thwarted another near miss.

It wasn’t a matter of if, it was a matter of when, and with every fiber of my being I sat and willed the sluggish seconds to pass with haste so that I could make it home to the privacy of my own bathroom instead of having to put my face inside the bowl of a questionably sanitary public toilet.

When the longest 89 minutes of my life were finally over, I slowly rose on rubbery legs and gulped a viscous swallow as we made our way out of the crowded theatre. I finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel as we made it to the car. When my Dad announced that we were going to run a few errands on the way home he was effectively the straw that broke my back and with a heave born of an hour of resistance, I introduced the parking lot to no less than a dozen Twizzler ropes.

I’ve never eaten a Twizzler again, as even the smell evokes a noticeable gag reflex. It’s kind of strange to think that my last ever taste of Twizzler happened not in the theatre, but in that parking lot.