i have a history of passing out

I was a hearty kid.

A stocky kid.

A kid with an iron gut and properly screwed on head. I would have made a fine pioneer.

Then puberty happened and I was transformed into a fragile cluster of bones and meat and organs that couldn’t handle certain foods, temperatures or stressful situations. Thus started my long and storied tradition of passing the fuck out.

The first time I ate turf I was at Ozzfest, a heavy metal outdoor festival held on a blistering hot day. While a horrific one-hit-wonder band played their one stupid and terrible song, I suddenly swayed and became one with the grass and cigarette butts.

Lesson learned: Standing in 1,000 degree heat in a tank top after a casual spritz of dollar store sunscreen, with no water and only a tootsie roll for sustenance is not a combination for surefootedness. Throw in a seriously heinous radio single and I believe even the heartiest soul would have taken a dive onto that filthy terrain.

Late night, in the foyer of the apartment inhabited by the dude I was madly horny for, we held each other close. Our leather jackets rubbed and creaked against each other. Suddenly I almost barfed and then fell backwards like a freshly chopped tree, landing with the top half of my body in the communal bathroom, the floor riddled with enough body hair to knit 16 sweaters.

Lesson Learned: Leather may play itself off as cool, but when push comes to shove, it’s always going to leave you with a swelling lump. On your skull, pervs!

After a delicious dinner on our honeymoon, my stomach expressed its malcontent with sudden searing pains. I insisted on hobbling back to our suite solo, swiped the room card the wrong way 17 times, swiped it the right way once and managed to make it to the bathroom with my skirt at my ankles before collapsing like a Belushi in front of the toilet.

Lesson Learned: When you’re having a romantic meal with your new husband in tropical paradise, don’t order a steak the size of your face and then stuff an ice cream sundae down on top of it. Just because the rings have been exchanged and vows read aloud doesn't mean your newly betrothed won’t hightail it out of there once he smells the damage that can come out of your butt.

My co-workers will never forget the day I casually lurched past them and then abruptly did my best "loose pile of bones in jeans" impression.

Lesson Learned: Black coffee and stone fruit are never a good idea for breakfast. And when your guts are screaming and you feel super woozy and light headed and all of a sudden don't remember where you are, don’t get up from your desk to go figure that out.

So, there you have it.  All my terrible tumbles, from heat stroke to lust to loose stool.

Please learn from my mistakes.

Keep your centre of gravity low. Stay hydrated. Eat clean. And if you do go down, never ever pop up afterwards like you weren't just hugging the floor. The pubes stuck to your face are a dead giveaway.

i have a history of passing out missteenussr.com

{This post originally appeared on In The Powder Room. If you're not a regular reader of that site, you're a weirdo.}