College food – putting the 'die' in diet

Last Thursday, as the night wound down and I wound up, temptation yet again manifested as I fell prey to the siren’s call of the garbage plate. Powerless against the scent-sual seduction of the plate, I soon found myself downtown, staring a plate right in its ugly, ugly face. Now, I’ve had my share of garbage plates before. As a college student, I feel as though it’s my right to take certain liberties when selecting my food, disregarding such trivial elements as “nutritional value” or “edibility.” By this point my body, three-and-a-half years into the junk food jihad to which it’s been subjected, represents the absolute pinnacle of efficiency. Laughing at month-long binges of Pepsi and Fruit Roll-up exclusive meals, my body has honed the ability to take whatever questionable substances I digest and extract every last molecule of nourishment – if any were present to begin with – from said delicacies or derelictacies. Yet, this time was different.I don’t know why it was different, mind you. The garbage plate that I dueled looked harmless enough. But for some reason, I woke up the next morning after the deep, restful sleep that accompanies binge drinking, feeling slightly under par, as though I had just had sex with a barracuda. At a loss for remedies, I did what came natural – devoured a heaping plate of our cook’s special pasta with meat sauce, a one-course meal that plopped into my stomach like a cement porcupine. Trouble, it seemed, was imminent.It wasn’t until later in the evening, during an inspired rock-n-roll session in my Spurrier practice room, that the momentum in my omentum reached a climax and disaster struck. Courtesy of the body’s emergency upchuck broadcast system, or BEUBS – which includes wild stomach convulsions, a cold sweat and ‘that taste’ – I had time to prepare calmly and accordingly, which in this case entailed a panicked tumbled over my drumset, a few disoriented screams and a frantic sprint to the nearest bathroom – as it was, a women’s room. Once comfortably inside, it was discovered that my stomach had apparently been informed that I had, at some point in the past twelve hours, consumed a Cadillac, and proceeded to dispose of all of its worldly possessions, as well the combined worldly possessions of every stomach in our zip code, in pursuit of purging said automobile. When the cascade finally concluded I emerged, breathless, flushed and half as wide.Having had food poisoning before and spending eight obscenely painful hours reviewing the past month’s lunches, I knew the signs. I knew I was in trouble. So, after a brief stop home to play some Tecmo Super Bowl, I drove myself to the E.R., wherein I was told that my emergency earned me a wait of “at least a few hours.” I was also given a small pink bucket, roughly the size of a Dixie cup, in case my stomach wanted to flood the Euphrates again. The first hour passed by idly enough, as the gastrointestinal geyser within carefully reloaded. It was during the second hour that the seas started to sway again, so, hands clutching my waist-bound washing machine, I approached the nurse and asked if there was any way to expedite my treatment. Without thinking, possibly without even listening, she replied with a terse “no.” Put-off and poisoned, I returned to my chair, an abdominal avalanche rumbling deep within. If the nurse wasn’t going to help me out, well, hot damn, it was time for a power move.BEUBS told me that round two was nearing. Eyebrows peaked diabolically, I remained poised and lifted my pink hospital-issue shot glass aloft, preparing to capture roughly three-forths of a fluid ounce of refurbished PowerAde. My muscles tensed. It was time. I gave one last sidelong gaze at the unsuspecting nurse and then, casting my pink thimble aside, dove over a neighboring ashtray and resumed my search for that Cadillac.A montage of drama ensued. The metal ringing of the defiled ashtray, wobbling on its newly-weighted base, provided the soundtrack. The nurse – presumably after having hurdled the desk – dashed madly for yours truly, sprawled out in my seat, gasping and retching. A tense moment of silence when she arrived.”Why didn’t you use the bucket?” she finally gasped, lifting the pristine pink pen cap for me to regard mischievously.”Too . . . much,” I managed, a slight groan in my voice to suggest an encore performance. Defeated, the nurse initiated a whirlwind of activity, and almost immediately I found myself comfortably reclining in a hospital bed, an IV pumping nausea suppressants into my forearm and a pack of recuperatory graham crackers in-hand. Victory, I mused between delectable bites of graham goodness, was mine.But more important than my healthy recovery, I learned a valuable lesson that night. It doesn’t, however, have anything to do with my diet of culinary car-wrecks – at this point, with just three months left in my college career, the idea of switching to a diet that doesn’t consistently jeopardize my health is as unfathomable as a normal sleep schedule or the idea of Shakira marrying someone else. Rather, just this – if, at any time you find yourself endlessly waiting in the hospital triage for any number of maladies, be it broken toe, lupus or leprosy, just barf in an ashtray. Make it loud, and possibly include spillage for good measure. Then, watch as the staff scrambles to accommodate your every whim like a concierge on crystal meth. It’s just that simple. Janowitz can be reached at njanowitz@campustimes.org.