After mentioning twice in the last two weeks that I recently got vomited on, it made me remember the last (and first) time I was vomited on, which was in fifth grade.

I was standing in line behind this kid, I’ll call him Jeff — because that was his name — when he turned around, and hurled. Right all over my leg.

Of course, everyone in our class howled and shrieked about how gross I was. Somehow I was the one implicated as being the disgusting one, even though my only sin was standing near the puker. Ah, the joys of public school. And 10-year-olds.

Other than having thrown up on me, this kid’s only other sin was wearing one of those T-shirts that looked like a tuxedo shirt, all the time. He wore that damn shirt regularly until like eighth grade. I know he did because I can’t even remember all my elementary school teachers’ names, but I can still picture him in that T-shirt.

That is completely irrelevant to the story. Except for the fact that when I think of that day, I picture him in the shirt. And it makes me want to puke.

The worst part of that day was, believe it or not, not having been vomited on.

Let me break it down for you.

Exhibit A: I was wearing my favorite red corduroys with my favorite pair of tennis shoes.

Exhibit B: My mother was called so that she could bring me some fresh clothing to put on.

By the time she got to school, my pants had been rinsed out and dried. I don’t remember the state of my shoes. But when I looked inside the bag she had brought and saw the clothing, I cringed. I stood in the bathroom stall trying to decide which was worse. Wearing clothes that had been puked on and being made fun of, again for being gross. Or putting on the clothes my mother had brought, which were the worst possible combination she could have put together.

And being made fun of for being a huge dork.

I knew that I couldn’t keep those clothes on. I would have to explain why I had not changed, thus drawing attention to the clothes and then be mocked for wearing puked on clothing, and still being a huge dork.

It was most definitely, a lose, lose situation.

Mortified, I changed my clothing, dreading the certain second round of humiliation I would have to endure that day.

Exhibit C: I wore high waters and beaded moccasins for the rest of the day.

If anything, this memory serves as a reminder that I should:

A) Never buy shoes for my daughter without her approval once she hits a certain age.

And B) Always make sure that the clothing in her drawers fits her.

The end.