The Undie Run Debacle

I felt the vomit pushing its way forward from the pit of my stomach before I could stop it. There I was, sweating in a pointy bra and lacy pink panties, when tequila burst out from me all over a stranger’s shoes. The shoes were crisp white sneakers. My vomit was Halloween orange.

The university’s Undie Run was an autumn event where hundreds of students, unfit and intoxicated as they may be, took to the streets to run a 5K marathon to benefit charity. Students who left home to “study” threw down money (sent by their parents to buy textbooks and gas) in the name of a charity they cared nothing about, just for the thrill of running at midnight on public streets in underwear. I guess one could do that any night, but perhaps not lawfully and certainly not in a Madonna imitation bra and definitely not while wearing pink face paint and shout-singing, “We are living in a material world, and I am a material girl!” (I’m not saying I did that...but yes, I’m saying I did that).

I met up earlier that night with my best friend, Chloe, and her roommate, Val. Secretly, I called the roommate Vile Val because she did evil things like eat the last cookie in the jar, leave her hair to clog up the shower drain, and cut her toenails on the couch. Chloe had donned a pointy purple bra with flashy sequins and underwear that said “ALL THIS AND MORE” on the back. We saw each other’s outfit decisions and high-fived, grinning. Vile Val was in all black. To match her heart, I snickered inwardly. 

Vile Val, being one to naturally ruin the fun of everything, complained as soon as she saw our giddy high-fives. “It’s disturbing how many people want to come out in their underwear on a cold fall night. Don’t people have anything better to do?”

“Of course not,” I snapped. “We don’t have anything better to do. This is the best thing to do this entire month.”

“Laney, you don’t even know which charity this is for.” Val rolled her eyes at me.

“And your point is?”

Chloe sensed my annoyance. “Look, Val, you’re dressed the part -”

“I would say I am not dressed at all,” interrupted Val.

“You’re here, then,” Chloe continued. “And we’ve donated the money. We’re doing this.”

Val sighed. “I’m going to need alcohol before this debasement.” 

Thus, Vile Val is the one to blame for introducing tequila shots before running a 5K marathon. Not one shot. Or two. But four shots of tequila. I should add here that I was not a runner or an athlete of any kind. I did not play or even watch sports. I occasionally spent time on the treadmill at a casual walking speed while gasping at others’ bad decisions on reality TV. I only broke a sweat in a jacuzzi. Let’s just say, running one mile after one shot of tequila was enough of a challenge. But after four? A complete disaster.

The run started off decently. Chloe and I were singing Madonna songs and pretending to shoot lasers from our pointy bras. We laughed, and tripped, and laughed again. And I actually made it! I made it to the end of the marathon and saw the finish line. 

It was just, well, the bright white finish line marking the end of the marathon triggered a sudden onset of nausea. As I came to a slow pace, I saw Vile Val and Chloe run up ahead, with Chloe clapping and cheering for me to cross the finish line next. Tequila started bubbling in my stomach. I brought my hands to my knees to stop the floor from spinning. And that’s where it happened. Yep, the barf. The vomit. Projectile throw up. However you want to call it, I stepped on the finish line and before I knew it, my vomit was decorating a stranger’s sneakers.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered afterward, terrified to look up.

A guy’s voice answered. “Gross.”

I glanced up then and saw him. Wavy black hair, green eyes, and sculpted muscles. Model material in dark gray boxers with abs made to bounce a quarter on. Yes, I thought miserably, I just vomited on the hottest guy on this campus. 

The world was spinning then. I tried to push myself into a standing position, but I felt like I was about to fall off the edge of the Earth. It was as if I were on a treadmill watching my own reality TV show.

“I can clean those,” I offered, standing and swaying. My words slurred. “I’m sho...sssooo...good at cleaning, and I -”

Projectile vomit number two erupted from me, directed right at the guy’s barenaked chest. The vomit met its target and slid down his model body like orange goo. He made a little yelp this time, eyes widening. “SICK!”

Other guys encircled him, laughing. He started yelling for his friend to bring him a towel and backed away from me quickly.

“Oh!” I shrieked, wiping my mouth, horrified. “I can help you clean it, I can-”

Chloe rushed over and apologized profusely to him, pulling me away. She lifted my arm around her shoulders and brought me out of the crowd. I was dizzy, humiliated, and in need of water.

About thirty minutes later, after the bubbling in my stomach settled, I rested back against Chloe.

“I”m so humiliated,” I murmured. 

“That was pretty freaking terrible,” Chloe agreed. 

“How will I ever face that guy again? Did you see him? Did you see his abs? He looks like he’s here as the Undie Run mascot! He is beautiful! And I just puked on him!” I felt at that moment like I could crawl into a hole and hide for fifty years. I had an image of myself emerging from a cave half a century later, sober in a pointy pink bra, but with saggy boobs and wrinkles. 

Vile Val was laughing at me. She was rotten to the core, as usual. “Don’t worry, Laney. There’s thousands of people here. You’ll probably never see him again, and everyone else was too drunk to remember this.”

And I thought maybe she was right.

But Vile Val seemed to forget the fact that, despite my Madonna bra, I did not live in the 1980s. I was all over social media the next day. A short video clip of my projectile vomit spewing onto Model Man’s chest was replayed over and over and over. The video clip got 26,000 views within one week, to my complete mortification. Most people commented that it was hilarious or disgusting. One girl said my Madonna bra was stellar (and she was right), but another girl said I had destroyed any chance of snagging a future boyfriend (she was also right). One night at Chloe’s, I caught Vile Val watching the video clip when she left her bedroom door open. And she was chuckling to herself! I could have strangled her.

After a few weeks, I stopped reading the video comments. I pretended to ignore people’s jokes in class and the lovely nicknames I was given: The Vominator, Barf Bae, Pukeface Laney. Life went on, and I struggled through classes the rest of the month without a single shot of tequila.

After four weeks of moping and venting, Chloe knew my grades (and my self-esteem) were in danger, so she encouraged me to get a job far from campus.

“It will keep your mind off the video,” she promised. “People probably won’t even recognize you from the Undie Run. And you never know, you could meet someone!”

Yeah, hopefully someone who had never seen a video starring The Vominator.

I gave in to her badgering and picked a job thirty minutes from campus at a family-owned bookstore. There were three reasons I applied there. Reason number one, small bookstores do not attract crowds of people. Reason number two, I assumed the minority group of people who actually shopped at hole-in-the-wall bookstores did not browse social media sites in search of Undie Run mishaps. And reason number three, the middle-aged woman (Beth) who interviewed me wooed me with tales about how this bookstore had been in her family for three generations. She was a cute lady with short red hair, purple glasses, and a lopsided smile. She grew up reading in the corner nook of the shop’s front window with her grandfather. Both the bookstore and Beth were charming in an old-fashioned way. Just what I needed to forget my post-tequila woes.

I showed up on a Saturday morning for my first day. I dressed like a straight-laced librarian in a high collared, button-up cream shirt and olive green slacks. And I wore my regular, non-pointy, padded push-up bra, thank you very much.

“Laney!” Beth gushed as soon as I walked in. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“Thanks, Beth. I’m reporting for duty.” I gave her a mock salute in an utterly corny way.

Beth smiled and beckoned me toward the front counter. “You’ll be working with my nephew today.”

Nephew? “Oh?”

“Yes, I think he is around your age.”

Let him be a gorgeous man in bookstore glasses.

“Actually,” Beth went on, stacking books in a pile. “He goes to your university. He’s in his junior year, like you.”

I went still. No. I came to this bookstore to hide out. I did not want to see another student from my university.

“Oh?” I croaked again.

“Yes.” She smiled and called out, “Angelo, come on up to the front! Meet our new weekend girl, Laney!”

Angelo came around the corner of a tall bookshelf with a book in one hand. My jaw must have dropped down to the bookstore’s carpet. Angelo was dark-haired with green eyes and biceps molded by angels. He was in fact gorgeous and was in fact wearing glasses. And he was in fact the Model Man I puked all over.

I froze in place, wishing the impossible wish that he did not recognize me. My heart thumped so hard that I feared he would see it pounding. When he saw me, he paused suddenly next to the bookshelf, surprised. I knew by his look that he recognized me.

“Well, Angelo,” Beth urged, “come on over here and shake a girl’s hand. Laney, you know these young boys nowadays, lacking manners with the girls.”

He replaced his look of surprise with a calm, twinkling smirk and strolled to the front counter to set down his book.

“Hi,” he said with a knowing smile. “Nice to meet you.”

I only stared.

“Um, Laney, do you want to set down your purse...or...” Beth’s voice trailed off.

I collected myself and plastered on a big smile. Time to play it cool. I could not embarrass myself so massively a second time in front of Model Man. Er, Angelo. “Hi. Yes, thanks Beth. And nice to meet you, Angelo.”

I held out my hand to him, which he clasped in his. His lovely, strong hand enveloped mine completely. Did he have to be a hot guy stacking books in his family’s shop? Couldn’t I have vomited all over a boy with warts on his nose and a sixth toe?

“Your campus must be so big! I can’t believe you two haven’t met.” Beth shook her head. “You’re both math majors, too.”

“I don’t go out much,” I lied. “I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d met Angelo.”

“And I’m sure meeting you would have been memorable.” Angelo folded his arms across his chest, relaxing back against the counter in a way that told me he was feeling far more comfortable in this situation than I was. “So, you’re working here for the school year?” 

“Yes.”

“Have you ever helped run a shop before?”

“I’ve never run -” I halted. Did I just say run? “I mean, I’ve never run a bookstore. Or run anything. I don’t run. You know, jog. Like in general.”

My cheeks were flaming.

Beth chimed in. “Good thing is, you don’t need any prior experience to run this small shop!” 

“Auntie Beth, you should have Laney work on getting the shop more exposure on social media this year,” Angelo suggested. His eyes flashed to mine, feigning innocence under his thick eyelashes. “What do you think, Laney?

I must have died and this was hell. A hell born from Madonna and tequila. And it seemed like Angelo was enjoying my colossal embarrassment! 

“Social media, yes,” I managed. “But, um, this bookstore is so charming. It doesn’t need any flashy online promotions. Anyway, posting on social media is overrated.”

“Is it?” Angelo tilted his head.

“I think it’s a great idea!” Beth smiled at Angelo. “You two young ones can get this shop an online presence!”

“Social media exposure is overrated,” I insisted. “Especially for a charming place like this one, which should stay a hidden gem.” 

Beth put a hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “I think it will be fun for you two to work together and bring some youth to this shop! I’d love an online presence. You’ll both be working here every weekend.” 

“I see. So he’ll be here whenever I’m here. Wonderful.” I forced a smile. 

Beth exclaimed, “Yes, and now that you guys have met, you can carpool!” 

Angelo cracked a tiny grin. “I don’t know. Do you get carsick, Laney?”

I groaned inwardly at his evil teasing, and the realization hit me. I would be working with a steamy male version of Vile Val for the rest of the semester, suffering endless moments of embarrassment. You know how teachers in elementary school were required to lecture students on the lasting effects of alcohol? Yes, well, I was living proof that four shots of tequila does indeed have long term consequences.