SOMETHING WICAH-WICAH-WICKED THIS WAY COMES

So, um, when do you know that you're getting older, that your hand is on the Exit door handle of the seemingly-interminable lazy flares of your 20s and early-30s? When are you made aware that Life-As-Recess is over and it's high time--well past time--to start to buckle down and pretend to be a grownup? Is it when you notice that first clump of gray hair on your head? Is it when college cheerleaders start looking like the children they are? Is it when you wake up the morning after playing a couple, three games of pickup basketball and your body feels like a Mack truck ran over it while you slept?

Here's another one: you know that you're getting older when carnival rides start making you sick to your stomach. I used to pride myself on having an iron stomach. I could eat anything, assuredly drink anything, I could be battling flu-like symptoms and I still would not give up the ghost and pray to the porcelin god. It would take eating bad meat--or Egg Foo Yung--to get me to puke...other than that, I'd be golden. Not today. Today, my prideth was dingedeth.

Meagan and I went to the Rochester Fair today. 'Twas a beautiful day, perfect weather, and I had been feeling in tippy-top tip-top shape when we got there (save, of course, for the omnipresent tiredness that I blame on too many cigs, too much java and too much sleep apnea-interrupted winkeye). We each bough the twenty dollar all-you-can-ride wrist strap and we were good to go.

The first ride we went on was the one that kind of spins you in two directions at once. There was a bit of tightness in my gut and my knees were weak when I got off, but, other than that, all was good. I wanted to ride more. We went on the Pharoh's Boat next, the ride that is in the shape of, well, a boat, and it swings waaaaaaaaaay up and waaaaaaay back so that the riders are either looking straight into the heavens or looking straight down at the rest of the revelers. 'Twas fine. I like heights. My stomach gurgled a bit, but I dismissed it as the "afterglow" from the large Mello Yello that I had consumed. Three or four rides and two or three games later, we were nearing the end of our fun time and so we went on one last ride.

It seemed like such an innocuous motherscratching ride when I first looked at it. Shit, even the wee ones were bored with it. It's kind of like a hang glider-type ride in which the riders lay on their tummies and stretch out their hands and get whipped around in a circle, across various planes of altitude. Sounds like a joy, no? Well, actually, no. Even typing this makes my stomach tighten up a bit. We flew around about ten or fifteen times and, I tell you, I was praying for the damned ride to end. The contents of my stomach stayed in place, but it was damned close. Too close.

We staggered off the ride and mutually (of course we did; we're twins of the wavelength, don'tcha know) decided that that would have to be enough.

Meagan looked at me and said, "Adam, are you all right? You're as white as a ghost."

I grimaced a smile and told her that I would be all right. I was fine, hon, but--hey!--time to go, huh?! Yes. It was. We stopped at the Qdoba restaurant to get some burritos and taco salads (we stayed in the car until my tummy felt a little better) and then I acquiesced to Meagan's suggestion that we stop by the CVS and get some motion sickness pills.

See, the thing is, feeling sick from the rides seemed like an affront to me. My pride told me that my stomach was titanium-plated and lined with iron. Um, no.

I felt progressively worse as I drove back to her place and, when we got there, I sat in the car for a beat longer than I needed to, burped a bit of acid into my throat and staggered up the stairs to her front door. And then came the hiccups. Now, listen, I know what comes after the hiccups.

I turned to her, then, still presumably Casper-like, and I said, "Um, maybe I should visit the bathroom, make myself sick."

"Let me turn on the radio," she said. Good idea. Drown out the Sounds o' Sickness. Damned good idea.

So, there I was, hardly even having to poke a finger in my mouth to get the waterworks going, my gurgles and heaves accompanied by former Genesis frontman Phil Collins loudly advising the listeners that they couldn't hurry love, no, they just had to wait.

Thanks--glug!--Phil. Ploo-haw!

Splash.

Not to get into too much detail--but, seriously, why stop now?--but my vomit, having eaten nothing but a bowl of Cracklin' Oat Bran at 11:00 and drinking nothing but Mello Yello at the fair, was nothing but yellowish bile, tinging towards a lovely acidic red at the end of the five or six quality liquid-y purges.

Yum.

So I guess I'll be applying for the AARP newsletter in the next couple of months.

Days of youth...where for art thou?