We were at a Chinese restaurant. One with arguably good food but a really loud waitstaff.
It's a toss up, really.
Alli said, "So, my son is really excited about this private school we are looking at. He doesn't even mind the dress code - collared shirt on top and chinos on the bottom."
"Are they uniforms? Or dress code guidelines?"
"Just guidelines. They're allowed seven colors on top, and I think three colors on the bottom."
And then I took a drink of my water. Which turned out to be a perilous mistake.
Because just then, my quick-witted mom said, "I would think its difficult to find three-colored pants."
And there was that millisecond when I wondered if I could maintain my composure. And then there was the overwhelming response from my insides: um, no. We aren't keeping the water, the composure, or your dignity.
I didn't just hold up one courtesy finger and carefully breathe through the swallowing.
I didn't cough just a little.
I threw up into my scarf.
It's hard to recover a conversation after a situation like that.
(And I have one question: why are Asian restaurants so stingy with their knives and napkins? Is there some cultural rule against being generous with these meal accessories? I was vomiting. "Could we have some napkins?" They gave us one. One.)
I recovered. As did the scarf.