Making It to the Sink: A Panic Attack in Three Acts

Act One: The Invitation

      Some time ago, I recieved an invitation from a friend of mine to go out to the grand opening of the newest Dallas hot spot, Vibe Lounge, (Note: Vibe is a name I've created, as to not hurt the feelings of the real Dallas hot spot we attended) with him . He sounded super excited, make that uber excited, about the event. Why he wanted me of all people to accompany him on this grand evening remains a mystery to me to this day. See, I don't like going to clubs. Or lounges. Or bars. Or whatever the cool kids are calling them these days. I've been to clubs and bars before, and I stick out like a sore thumb. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't like dancing with sweaty people I don't know. So what is the point of me going? There is none, really.
     Despite great resistance on my part, my overly enthusiastic friend, let's call him Jay, finally wore me down with his persistence. I had to go, he insisted over and over again, I just had to. I would look like a total loser if I didn't go. "Jay," I insisted,"I am a loser. I'm okay with being a loser. Losers get to stay home and eat Oreos and watch tv and wear slippers with Homer Simpson heads on them." A somewhat stupefied silence followed this disclosure, then a hurried "Ok, great, I'll pick you up at 11 on Saturday!"
   I was left holding the phone in my hand, trying to remember if I had actually agreed to go or not. I was pretty sure I'd said I wanted to stay home. It had seemed as if Jay had been completely embarrassed by my confession of my loser lifestyle, which completely puzzled me. What's not to like about Oreos and Homer Simpson slippers? And wait, had he said he'd pick me up at 11? 11 pm? That was about an hour past my bed time. I sighed with a bitter finality. It looked as if my peaceful, happy existence in Loserland was about to end.
  
      Act Two: The Anticipation

           Three days had passed since Jay's infamous invitation, and the dreaded day had finally arrived. I'd been receiving numerous text messages in the past three days from him exuberantly exclaiming how much fun we were going to have. The latest message in my inbox said "We r going to have a BADAZZ NITE!!!!!!!!!" I really didn't feel that that statement warranted so many exclamation points.
     The truth is, I was growing increasingly nervous even thinking about going out to what promised to be a very loud, crowded, smoky place. I'm not comfortable in huge crowds. Cigarette smoke usually makes me sick. And extremely loud music usually leaves me deaf for days. Like I said, I'm a loser.
   I had sneaked a peek at the club's (lounge? bar? whatever) website and had ascertained that extremely loud music, crowds, and ample amounts of cigarette smoke would all be there in abundance. Apparently a few famous football players, rap stars, and one very famous DJ (who looked quite full of himself, if I do say so myself) would all be there in abundance as well. The website screamed that I couldn't miss out on "The Hottest Night In Dallas!!!!!!!!" Again with all the unwarranted exclamation points.
   As the clock ticked mercilessly on, my nerves began to increase in leaps and bounds. Was I nervous about going out? No. Was I nervous about what people would think of me? No. Was I nervous about what to wear? Nope. The only thing I'm ever really nervous about is having a panic attack in front of people. I mean, this was apparently the "hottest night in dallas". What if I had a panic attack in front of the very famous DJ? Apparently he was flying in all the way from West Hollywood!
   You see, panic attacks and social anxiety are very tricky things. They are different with each individual that suffers from them. The symptoms are usually different. The triggers are usually different. But they have one thing in common: they're embarrassing. I'd be extremely surprised if I ever met a social anxiety sufferer who proclaimed "I'm not embarrassed by my anxiety attacks! I wear them proudly on my sleeve! I can't wait for the next one!"
   You can't control how your body reacts to social anxiety. Even if your mind isn't nervous, your body is, and it starts doing all sorts of embarrassing things. For all three (am I being too optimistic?) of you who've read my previous entries, you'll remember that the defining symptom of my social anxiety-related  attacks are uncontrollable bouts of gagging. Yes, gagging, like when you go to the dentist and he sticks that mirror thing all the way down your throat and then says "So, how has your day been going?" and you try to answer but instead all that comes out is a big bullfrog gag.
   It may be gross, but hey, welcome to my world. Chronic gagging may be the worst part, but there are other parts too. Chills, cramping, feeling faint and/or fainting and vomiting are all part of the wonderful world of anxiety attacks. Is it any wonder I like to stay home and watch Friends re-runs in my Homer Simpson slippers?
   I feel inclined to add that, aside from wasps and mall Santa Clauses, vomiting is my greatest fear in the entire universe. I've never understood people who can drink and drink and drink knowing they are going to vomit later. Throwing up simply terrifies me. My cat throws up quite frequently, and let me tell you, you'd be terrified of vomiting too if you saw my cat toss his cookies. (Or cat treats, as the case may be.)
   So back to that mercilessly ticking clock. It was now around 9:30 and I figured I'd better start getting ready for The Hottest Night In Dallas. After all, I didn't want to look like a frump in front of the West Hollywood DJ. I rummaged in my closet and threw on the skimpiest dress I could find, along with some very tall silver heels. I looked fairly presentable, but this meant I would be freezing, considering it was February, but no one wears a sweater to a club. That would really make me look like a loser.
  I began applying gobs of makeup as my nerves accelerated. One minute I was freezing, and the next minute I felt like I was trapped in an oven. This made me even more nervous because of course I recognized the by-now classic symptoms of an anxiety attack. I stole a glance in the mirror. Yikes. My hand had been shaking so badly as I applied my lipstick that I now resembled Bozo the Clown, or worse, Lindsay Lohan's latest mugshot. Not exactly the look I'd been aiming for.
   I was just about to wipe it off and reapply when my phone rang. It was Jay, my ever-persistent friend. "Hello?" I answered, not entirely surprised at how timid my voice sounded. "Hey girl!" Jay shouted into my ear. He sounded as if he was swinging from a chandelier at a New Year's Eve party. "You ready to rock and roll?" he yelled into the phone. "I was hoping you'd forgot," I admitted pathetically. "Huh?" Jay yelled into the phone again,"I can't hear you, sweetcheeks!" Sweetcheeks? I decided to ignore this particular comment.
  "I said, I was hoping you'd forgotten about tonight!" I yelled into the receiver. "I'm just, I'm feeling kind of nervous and-" "Girl!" Jay shouted, even more loudly this time,"We're at your door! Open up!" He hung up. I stared at the phone, dumbfounded and in a full-tilt panic. "We?" Who was "we"? I'd thought it was just going to be the two of us! Now he was bringing an entourage?
  I grabbed my purse and threw open the door. Jay, dressed head to toe in expensive designer labels, was surrounded by an entourage of about eight people. I cannot imagine being so popular. "Yo! Gang!" Jay shouted, gesturing to the entourage, all who consisted of very tanned, very tall people with ample amounts of hair gel. "This is Chels!" The entourage let out a roar of approval. Did I mention I hate it when people call me "Chels"?

      Act Three: Making It to the Sink

    I nervously followed Jay and the entourage outside, where a sleek black limo was purring curbside. A limo? Were we going to the prom? I clambered in after the entourage. My hands were extremely sweaty, yet I felt freezing. My heart was pounding. Now that I wasn't taking my own car, how would I ever be able to leave if I wanted to?
   "Wow," said a girl sitting next to me, "Wow." I turned. "Um. Hello." She held out an orange hand. She was so tan it was almost past orange. Her false eyelashes were so long they were almost touching my face. She was strangely fascinating to behold. "I'm Brandi. You look exactly like Lindsay Lohan." Crap. I'd forgotten to wipe off my Lindsay Lohan mugshot lipstick. "Thank you," I said, still staring, captivated at the length of her fake nails. "And you look exactly like...um...a.." I wasn't sure what to say, but I didn't think "Hollywood Boulevard hooker" would be appropriate.
   "An angel!" Jay shouted, protruding an arm from nowhere and wrapping it around Brandi and her ample cleavage, "She looks exactly like an angel!" I mouthed wordlessly, then nodded firmly. "Yes, she does. She really does." Brandi appeared genuinely touched.
   The limo stopped suddenly, and I felt extremely light-headed. I began shivering uncontrollably. And then...the inevitable. A gag. Oh no! I glanced around, mortified. The entourage were piling out of the limo up a red carpet leading into a very swank looking club. Jay and Brandi were stumbling up the carpet, wrapped around each other. Apparently I was left to fend for myself.
   Before I could stop it, another gag reached the surface. Yikes! I hobbled up the red carpet, past several intimidating doormen wearing imposing sunglasses. Inside the club, clones of Brandi and Jay were everywhere, dancing and standing around. The place was elbow-to-elbow packed. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung over everyone's heads. Cigarette smoke really makes me ill. My eyes began to water immediately and I started hacking away. A couple of my hacking coughs turned into bullfrog gags. I clapped my hand over my mouth in a panic.
   Suddenly, an arm snaked around my shoulders. I looked up. I was completely bewildered to discover that the very famous West Hollywood DJ was standing right next to me, his tattooed arm wrapped around me tightly. "Hey beautiful," he said, as if we'd known each other for centuries, "What are you doin' tonight?"
  I was at a complete loss of what to say. What was I doin' tonight? Well, I was here, wasn't I? Wasn't this what I was doin' tonight? I noticed that quite a few Brandi clones were beginning to eye me viciously. This made my panic increase tenfold. I hadn't had any intention of angering an army of Brandi clones! I had an urge to wave my hands wildly and yell "I'm sorry! I don't even know this guy! I don't care if he's from West Hollywood! He's not even cute! And he has an extremely tacky tattoo of an evil pumpkin covering his entire arm! He's all yours, ladies!"
  However, I was terrified if I opened my mouth at all either a) the loudest bullfrog gag ever would emerge, or b) I would throw up, because I was now beginning to feel extremely nauseous. The famous DJ started whispering in my ear. Wait, he licked my ear! Ick! I wrenched myself away. The stench of cigarette smoke and sweat surrounded me. I hadn't had anything to eat in hours. My shoes were killing me. I gagged. I saw little black dots dancing in front of my face. My stomach rumbled dangerously. Oh no. I clapped my hand to my mouth desperately once again. Bathroom. Must find bathroom.
  There! Over there! Next to that imposing bouncer with Gucci sunglasses! I hobbled in the direction of the bathroom as fast as I could, which wasn't very fast, considering my ridiculous shoes were giving me blisters. I pushed open the bathroom door. In the mirror, I saw my reflection. I looked ghastly. My face had a distinct greenish tinge to it. Lovely. I stood in the middle of the bathroom, and remembered that I had no getaway car since I'd come in a limo with an entourage of orange people. The thought made me feel breathless with panic. I pushed a girl away from the sink. I took a deep breath, and then...Vomit City.
   My ultimate fear had been realized. I was tossing my cookies. In front of everyone. At least I made it to the sink. "Ewww!" The girl I'd shoved out of the way gasped. It was Brandi. She looked absolutely horrified. I couldn't really blame her. "How disgusting!" she continued. She turned to the girl next to her. "You know, she doesn't look that much like Lindsay Lohan after all!"
    Even through my panicky haze, I was a little insulted. Isn't that what Lindsay is always doing in the magazines? Throwing up in clubs? Now I was just like her! I pulled my hair back and tossed up some more gunk. It was quite disgusting, I must say. On shaky legs, I finally wiped my face off and sat down on the bathroom floor. I let out a huge sigh. From now on, I was going to stay in Loserland with Homer and my Oreos. Permanently.