Accidental Husband Test

So the Fiancé and I have only been engaged for a few weeks now, but we've been together for years. He has proven his mettle time and again. He’s supportive, he’s loyal, he’s hilarious, blah blah blah. Pretty much all of his prior awesomeness has now been trumped by the Accidental Husband Test he passed this weekend.

Photo from Etsy. (Seriously)

This is a story of puke, y’all. If you can’t handle a little vomit in a story, you may want to skip this entry. (But I promise not to get too graphic. I’m no Daniel Tosh.)

Any time I have to get on a plane, I get motion sick. It sucks. But the good news is, I can usually head it off by taking some preemptive Dramamine, and thereby keep the motion sickness to mild headache and avoid getting to the serious-nausea stage. However, when I woke up at the godforsaken hour of 5 AM to head to the airport, I woke up with a migraine.

Not. Good.

I rarely get migraines; they’re a remnant from an awful car wreck I was in a few years back. Thank all that’s good and holy, they're not the norm for me - but when one sets in, it’s unforgiving. We’re talking throbbing, disorientation, nausea, utter misery. A migraine usually means calling in to work. Staying in bed. Which is not an option when you have to get on a plane. To go wear a bridesmaid dress in someone else's wedding.

So I drag myself out of bed. The Fiance helps keep me propped up as we take the dogs outside, and then he schleps all the luggage outside. I take some migraine meds. My friend Rachel arrives to take us to the airport. I manage to keep it together for most of the car ride, but I can tell things are about to get ugly.

Please let me make it to a toilet please let me make it to a toilet please let me make it to a toilet…

Rachel pulls the van up to the drop-off curb at the airport. I say, very quietly, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to throw up,” and then open the van door and keep my word, all over the sidewalk.

I’m not proud.

Rachel’s look of pity was a sight to behold. I must have looked really, really pathetic. But then I felt better. I thought it was over.

Then came the plane ride. The puddle-jumping, turbulent, stuffy-hot-miserable-get-me-out-of-this-hell plane ride. In order to avoid the truly unfortunate details and cancel the suspense, let's just say I threw up, into a flimsy airline barf bag, seated less than six inches from my future husband.

My future husband, who kept his hand on my back the whole time and told me it would be okay. Who pointedly ignored the lady across the aisle and her disdainful look. Who later described the incident to the friend who picked us up from the airport as "the most discreet bout of getting sick you could imagine. It was practically graceful."

Now that's how you pass an accidental husband test.

He's a keeper, y'all.