barf bag.

** Warning: Content is disgusting and may be unsuitable for those with weak stomachs **

Barf.

This is how I started my Friday last week. The Friday I had looked forward to for about a month because it involved traveling to Asheville for a romantic weekend away with Mark.

And I was greeted with barf. Lots of it.

How's that for an introduction? Here's what happened:

Since I was leaving for the airport directly from work, I had packed up my orange suitcase and rolled it diligently for .6 miles from my apartment to the Woodley Park Metro stop. Because the bag was heavy (I'm not usually an over-packer, but for some reason I was one this week), I struggled down the broken escalator. Don't even get me started on that front. It's another ranting blog entry waiting to happen. It's been broken since January. 'Nough said there. But I digress. I struggle down the broken escalator and hop on to a train that pulled up right as I did. I find a seat and precariously make my way with my bag to sit down. I pull out my book, and begin the 30-minute journey to work.

About a stop later, a guy gets on the train and comes to sit next to me.

And wow. Um. Something stinks. In a city, particularly one with such an extensive transit system that's, until recently at least, fairly reasonably priced, you get to mingle with the unwashed masses. My friend Bridget and I have started keeping tabs on the weird/disgusting/odd/bizarre/only on the Metro-type encounters we have. We've actually talked about starting a blog about it. We encounter that many. Anyway, unwashed masses.

This guy stinks. Like. Bad. Hopefully he'll get off soon. And as if my silent prayers were answered. He did. About three stops later.

But it still stinks! What is going on? His stinkiness rubbed off on the seat. Gross!!

About three stops later -- I'm about four stops from work at this point -- I make up my mind to get up and walk to another seat. At exactly the same time, a Metro employee gets on the train and walks up to me and stares down at me with all the guile of someone about to pummel the living shit out of me says, "Ma'am, you need to move. Now." I look up from my book, and stunned, say, "I'm sorry, why?"

"Because someone vomitted next to you. You need to move."

Vomit?

Yes. Vomit.

I look down and there it is. A big old, stinky pile. And of course, I freak out. Jump up, and immediately drop my sweater on to it. The sweater that I have to wear all day at work. That I have to wear on the plane and then for a two-hour drive to Asheville.

I move myself, realize I've stepped in it, and check my sweater for incrimintating spots. Miraculously enough, there was only a pinky fingernail sized smudge that wasn't fiber-deep. And my shoes. Well, of course they were brand new, but the nastiness was limited to the bottom. OK. Gross. But I can deal with this.

I get to Silver Spring and run straight to the bathroom. I clean everything with scalding hot water and enough antibacterial soap to kill a small country. The shoes are clean, and the sweater, well, it's clean enough for me to feel comfortable putting it back on after it's dried and I've checked it for smell, spots and any semblance of the foul substance that was there an hour before. I sit down in my cube and start working, horribly mortified by the insanity that I've just experienced. And then. I smell it.

By some odd impulse, I sense that it's on my luggage. My beautiful orange luggage that's traveled with me to London, Prague, Italy, Ireland and everywhere in between. I gingely walk to the other side of my cube where the bag sits, and flip it over to see the bottom. And of course. There it is. Cow-patty sized splat of barf. And I lose it.

Images of Chunk in The Goonies crying about a barf-o-rama flash through my head. I'm laughing, crying and gagging all at the same time. It's horrible. It's ugly. It stinks and it's on my bag. MY BAG.

All the girls come running to see if I'm OK and I manage to control myself enough to take the bag into the women's room to begin the arduous task of cleaning the foulness off the bottom of the bag. Luckily, there was a really kind woman who took one look at me and helped me on hands and knees until every last bit of grime was Clorox-wiped, Lysol-ed and scrubbed.

So by 9:30 a.m., I could finally start my day vomit-free. The rest of the day wasn't any better. My flight was two hours delayed and we didn't get to our bed and breakfast until 1:30 a.m. But the weekend made up for it in spades. Photos of the fun to come soon.

Just another day on the Metro, and in the words of my friend Heidi, "Brings whole new meaning to the term 'barf bag.'"