Learning How to Throw Up at Soho House
I'm really, really sorry...
Let this essay double as apology to all the patrons and staff at Soho House on Wednesday night (10/18/2023- fateful day).
I hate throwing up.
Every time I say this the only response I get is “well who enjoys losing their lunch?” But I’m trying to TELL you something here. I hate vomiting so much I would rather suffer through feeling sick than to have to hurl. I believe I wouldn’t mind feeling noshious (a word I can’t spell and refuse to learn) if it wasn’t a preamble to an upchuck.
I often get myself so tightly wound around the idea of it that even if I wanted to I can’t ‘pull trig’, as my 21 year old cousin says. I've had minor food poisoning and my sister chanting “throw up, throw up” in my ghastly face (thank you, Brooklyn Dumpling Shop) and I still couldn’t commit.
I just know I would be better off if I had the skill of the spew.
This is all to say, I almost never ralph. In my adult life I'd only barfed twice. If it’s any testament to how infrequently I regurgitate, my best friend and roommate of 4 years (three of which were in college) had never seen me puke.
This Wednesday I was taken to the Soho House in Dumbo (or DUMBO house, if you can say it without giggling). If you don’t know what a ‘Soho House’ is- good! You probably marvel in the beauty of nature and I can only applaud you for that. But as the rest of us hive mind, city folk know- Soho House is a members only exclusive social club aimed towards art types and people who wear a Zara blazer once and then throw it away.
I’m not a massive drinker but I’m also not a stranger to a libation-filled evening. I take medication I can't drink on, so a night of debauchery needs to be expertly scheduled because, as uncool as this sentiment comes across, I care (hypothetically) about the health of my liver.
My night started how any night in Brooklyn starts- rooftop bouldering and brats at a beer hall (I so totally wish I was joking but unfortunately I tend to live my life like a millennial-shaming SNL sketch) I thought my night would end at the beer hall; I’ve been around the block enough times to know that a secondary drinking location often means a night that leaks away from my grasp and out of my control. But I am of the mindset that if i’m not paying for it I do not have to take accountability for my actions, so I hopped in an Uber in Williamsburg and was carted off to Dumbo.
We arrive at DUMBO House wildly underdressed, clearly inebriated and annoyingly young. Our gracious club member/ trojan horse host advised us to “mingle” but it seemed as though that activity was out of our tax bracket. There's a very clear color palette sported by the predictable clientele, jewel toned poly-silks paired with modern denim- like your local show choir won the lottery. I’m wearing L.L bean winter clogs I got at goodwill that were such a “steal” I ignore the fact that they are 2 sizes too big, I am no winner.
We are seated outside (maybe there is a god) and this is when things become slightly less coherent for sweaty-ol’ me. At some point I make my way alone through the dining area inside and into the bathrooms- I know for a fact this happened because I have this written in my notes app:
I am a woman of simple pleasures.
I THINK I had a shot of reposado.
I THINK I drank a portion of an espresso martini.
I KNOW that I blew chunks into the garden.
But look at that view.
It's been over two weeks since this happened and I’m still wracking my brain trying to think of a more embarrassing place to disgorge. Luckily for me, by the time I was actually yakking I was, for the first time in my life, not worried at all about what other people thought of me. In that same spirit, not one employee of Soho House came to investigate as to what creature was retching in the corner of the balcony seating (which I'm half relieved and half insulted by).
As I’m finishing this, it’s early November. I’ve nearly shaken the embarrassment of being a drunken spectacle to a packed social club I’ll never be granted membership to. Despite my stewing, I’ve gained some insight from this calamitous event. Firstly (and maybe most importantly) I am notably less scared of throwing up than I was prior. I also feel as though I've peered into the adulthood looking glass and bore witness to a world devoid of the haunting shame that comes along with being alive and visible.
Thank you to my roommate for not only getting me home but taking the risk that I might kill you for taking a photo of me at my lowest, but it’s beautiful and will absolutely be in an ambiguous celebratory slideshow in the future.
Thank you to [redacted] for getting us into SoHo House in the first place and sorry for… everything (keeping you anonymous for the safety of your membership).
Thank you to the kind man who took care of me all night. We’ve only been dating for 2 and a half months and he has already seen me at my worst and god knows when he’ll get my best. Holding out hope for you, bud.
Finally, thank you to Buzzfeed for posting an article titled “A Definitive Ranking Of Every Slang Term For Vomiting” in 2013. Your efforts in the world of unnecessary yet niche-ly useful listicles does not go unnoticed.