I sit hunched over in my blue-plaid Southwest Airlines seat, staring at my Birkenstocks and hoping I can hold down the contents of my stomach for a few more tormenting minutes until the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign above my seat, 23 C. The pilot taxis down the runway and, to my incredible dismay, a 737 at the end of the runway awaits its turn for takeoff. My head pounds and my eyes water through my tightly shut eyelids while my stomach does brisk jumping jacks inside my chest. I want solid ground, not two-and-a-half hours tucked into an aisle seat.

I don’t know what made me think I was invincible the previous night while drinking five mixed drinks and a tequila shot, but I certainly experienced the wrath of the hangover the following painful morning when I woke up in my Las Vegas hotel room.

I went to Las Vegas in February to celebrate my 21st birthday with my parents, their best friends, my grandma and friends from school. I had successfully monitored my daily drink intake during the four-day trip, because, as my friends know, I’m the world’s biggest lightweight when it comes to alcohol consumption. But on my last night, I wanted to go out with a bang.

The evening began at the Tropicana Hotel bar where I redeemed a coupon for two free drinks. As I sipped my Sex on the Beach cocktails, I wandered around the casino floor, but after losing my birthday money, I headed back to find my parents at the bar. I pleaded with my dad to take a shot with me. He picked tequila. I begged for something else, but since Dad never changes his mind, the bartender set down two large glasses of Patrón. The others cheered as I winced and tossed back my shot, my dad laughing the whole time.

Once the burning stopped, I decided it was time to find another bar and Dad decided it was time for him to disappear.

Minutes later my mom, grandma and two friends found a seat in a lush bar in the center of the MGM Grand where I ordered some champagne. The bar closed early, at 11:30 p.m. I swallowed the last of my drink and we headed to the New York New York hotel. A club promoter standing outside the hotel doors offered me two passes into the Coyote Ugly bar, which I quickly grabbed. When my mom realized what they were, she sent me staggering back out the doors to take more.

Soon after, I was standing in Coyote Ugly trying to ignore my mother’s requests for me to climb on the bar with the gyrating female bartender. The alcohol got the better of me and I high-heeled my way up the steps onto the worn wooden stage. I swallowed shots of warm cherry liquor while dancing to a country song with the two other women on stage; my grandma watched from below.

I finally clambered down and started chatting up a young stranger standing nearby who spoke with a heavy German accent. He offered to buy me more drinks, so I followed him to the bar where I downed another Sex on the Beach and a Sprite mixed with Jägermeister. Next thing I knew I was making out with him in a dimly lit area, trying to hide myself from the rest of my group standing on the other side of the bar. After a few minutes of this indecent behavior, my friend walked over, grabbed my hands and led me out of the bar back to our room. I giggled between hiccups the whole way there. I downed a bottle of water and a handful of cereal and plunged into my bed.

The water did little to make waking up easier the next morning. In the 90 minutes it took me to untangle myself from the hotel sheets, throw my scattered belongings into an oversized suitcase and make myself look decent enough to still be loved by my grandmother, my dinner came up — twice.

I said goodbye to my parents and their friends, who were staying two more days, and 90 minutes later I had puked twice more in the public restroom in the airport. Thirty minutes later, it happened on the plane.

I visited the bathroom at least five more times during the flight. Each trip began with a quick glance at my worried grandmother sitting next to me, followed by a 20-foot scuttle to the rear of the plane. Once safely latched inside the restroom, I’d squat in front of the toilet seat, with the cold plastic wall pressed against my back, and the stench of past passengers’ visits to the same space wafting around my throbbing head.

I eventually fell asleep on the flight and woke up only when the pilot interrupted my slumber by announcing our arrival to the snowy Kansas City area and to bitter, sobering reality.