Walked to the corner grocery today to pick up some chicken, before heading to the library, and neatly sidestepped sidewalk puke. (This has happened before, and once, early one morning in Oxford, my flatmates and I skirted a man who continued to walk upright as he vomited all over the sidewalk.) It occurred to me that there are two kinds of lives, the one where you can reasonably expect to occasionally vomit on the street and the one where you don’t. I have vomited on planes and quite wretchedly in an Ugandan bathtub and once, memorably, in a Mason jar as a kid while my family drove through the mountains, but I clearly belong to the second camp, and I am OK with that.