My U2 Experience and Why I Won’t Eat at Jack-in-the-Box

There it was … the big red box with white letters, spinning flashing its sign. She wanted to go inside. There were no other fast food places around. I insisted that her GPS said there was an In-and-Out about seven blocks north, but apparently she was starving.

I’ll wait.

What’s the big deal?

Are you kidding me? What’s the big deal? Bono…The Edge?

Oh.

In-and-Out it is.

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I had never been to a U2 concert. They said it was an experience. A must see. I thought I would surprise my boyfriend (at the time) with floor tickets.  He was a huge U2 fan. Apparently he’s known and loved them since Bono had a mullet. I wasn’t aware what floor seats were and whether they were any good, but when he opened the envelope I realized they were amazing seats and I was an amazing girlfriend.

The day of the concert was so rushed. We didn’t eat home-cooked meals, but thought we’d pick something up along the way. We saw a Jack-In-The-Box and McDonalds on our way to the arena. I wasn’t a big fan of either one. I told him maybe we should look around, I’m sure there’s something else. It’s this or eleven dollar hot dogs from the arena. Jack-In-The-Box it is I guess.

I got the basics: Burger, fries and a lemonade. But then I saw the sign and changed my mind. “We make are shakes fresh. We use real vanilla ice cream, Oreo cookie pieces, whipped topping and maraschino cherries.”

The chocolate lover in me said: dude how can you not order that, I mean really lemonade, or Oreo Cookies Milkshake? C’mon now.

Milkshake, please. Large.

After we ate, we made our way to the arena and something didn’t sit well with me. My stomach began swelling and I had that bloated feeling.  He asked whether I wanted a beer or wine cooler before going in to the stadium. I politely declined, said I wasn’t feeling too well, probably full from the meal. One won’t hurt, may settle your stomach. All right.

So I picked the strawberry kiwi fizzy wine cooler. Thought it’s carbonated, it may help.

Always listen to your gut. It’s trying to tell you something.

We entered the stadium, bought our souvenir t-shirts and made our way to the floor. The floor. It meant the floor next to the band. The floor, where I could see the microphone stand and wires and if I reached my hand up toward the stage, Bono would probably high-five me, well he’d probably high-five my dude. Sweet, I thought. These were good tickets. He was happy, I was happy.

The lights dimmed and the opening act, The Pretenders, took the stage. As I nodded my head to the tunes, I got a funny feeling in my stomach. It wasn’t the butterflies of a new romance. It wasn’t the boom-boom of my inner musical soul thriving. It was the disharmony of a Jack-In-The-Box. It was my gut, calling me a jackass. I had no Sal de Uvas Picot to save me. But I tried to shake it off. I tried to dance it off.

The set continued, the band rocked on, and the people continued trickling in, filling up the arena. It began getting crowded on the floor … and then that’s when it happened.

It just came out. I threw up. I couldn’t stop. I was like Paul Rudd in I Love You, Man. My dude turned and looked at me, then at the floor. A couple of fans witnessed the spectacle and then probably wished they hadn’t witnessed it at all.

Disaster.

Oreo Cookie Milkshake indeed.

I was mortified. I couldn’t stop. The band didn’t stop jamming. The other floor ticket holders didn’t stop rocking. They didn’t hear me or the Oreo Cookie splat. But I did hear massive profanity as a few fans accidentally stepped in something that shouldn’t have been there. I needed to evacuate.

I didn’t know what to do.

What do you do when you lose it on a date? But not only a date, a concert … a most awesome U2 concert? Probably get ready to take a cab home, who wants a throw-up chick in their car?

I was unsure of my standing with my date at the moment.

My dude looked at me, walked me up the stairs, found the nearest bathroom, handed me one of the U2 shirts, and nodded his head.

After twenty minutes I came out of the bathroom, a little more refreshed and unsure of what was to come. We’d probably need a different spot on the floor. We’d probably be in the back, not even close to the microphone stand. We’d probably be better off in seats. And there would probably be no good-night kiss … No … there was no probably about it. I was sure of it. No kiss. But I was O.K. with that.

He took my hand, led me back to the floor, found a different spot, and he continued to rock on. Just when I felt the need to say something, an apology, a this-doesn’t-usually-happen-to-me-speech, he said:

I guess next time we’ll eat tacos, no milkshakes. Just lemonade.

He smiled and rocked as Bono took the stage.

Regardless of his compassion for my Oreo Cookie Milkshake mishap, I have yet to eat at Jack-In-The-Box again.

Fresh milkshakes with real vanilla ice cream … yeah … I’m not sure about that.

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