The Standardized Spew

Right now I can hear the principal blaring over the PA system at the middle school across the street from my house. She's giving instructions for the dreaded TAKS test and it's making me a little sick to my stomach.

When I was in school, we had to take the Iowa Test of Basic Skills every year to measure our aptitude. I never really had a problem with standardized testing until fourth grade when a girl sitting in the desk in front of me vomited voluminously right in the middle of the reading comprehension section.

After covering her half-finished bubble grid in a yellowish swirl of breakfast and bile, she slowly made her way toward the classroom door, leaving a trail clear out into the hallway. Miss Perry let us go outside while custodial staff tended to the emetic nightmare.

The next morning, two more students vomited during test time. I decided that was enough. I told Miss Perry I thought I too might barf and she sent me to the nurse to wait for a ride home.

I faked being sick to my stomach and stayed home for the rest of the week watching reruns. Upon my return, I was allowed to make up the Iowa Test in the solitary comfort of an empty classroom.

My parents knew the whole thing was psychosomatic, but what were they going to do? I was traumatized by that little girl's throw-up.

At least now I know I'm not alone in this irrational fear. There's even a word for it: emetophobia.

The intervening years have made regurgitation an easier reality for me to stomach. Drinking too much in college did wonders for desensitization, and I figure I'd get even less squeamish as the parent or guardian of a sick child.

In the meantime, though, I still prefer to be as far away from vomit in all its multicolored forms as possible.