A couple weeks ago, Mike J and I had dinner at a local pub, and afterward, I came home and crawled directly into bed. An hour later I woke up, feeling like something was not right. After a quick assessment (ooh, I think it's my stomach), I rolled over to swing my feet to the floor, and threw up all over myself.

Attractive, right? I don't think I've had such little control over my puke power since that time in the third grade when I yakked all over Mrs. Ashby's shoes. But this was only the beginning of the night's adventure in pathetic.

I scrambled for the bathroom, where I spent the next two hours begging for death. I'm no stranger to the glorious experience that is food poisoning (Boston 2003, Morocco 2004) and I knew where I was headed. To the hospital for Compazine and an IV full of saline. Only, these days I don't have health insurance, or a roommate, and I was in no position to get myself to the living room, much less to the Emergency Room.

I texted Mike, on the off chance that he would still be awake. Nada. I texted Jamie, who works nights. Nada. So I curled up on the bathmat and cried. Hard. Here I was, almost thirty years old, and completely alone. And for a girl who really likes alone, I was not digging it at all.

Finally, at a quarter of two, I called my mom.

"Mom, I'm really sick," I bawled into the phone. "I'm sick and I don't know what to do."

She said something about urgent care, which I couldn't process because I was thinking really important thoughts about crawling back to the toilet. And then she said the magic words,

"I'm on my way."

It was 1:49. It takes 30 minutes from her door to mine. I grabbed my watch from the bathroom counter and counted. Forty-nine, fifty-nine, oh-nine. Then I crawled back to the toilet, and buried my face in the bowl until help arrived. And when it arrived, she bundled me up, put me in the car, volunteered to pay for a trip to the ER, and listened to me bawl about being alone and pathetic.

"When you're this sick, you're always alone."

Man, you can always count on Mom in times of crisis. If for nothing more than really solid words of wisdom. That, a spare bed and ginger ale, with a bendy straw.

A dozen or so hours I was back on my feet and feeling much less pathetic. I was done feeling sick and more importantly, done feeling sorry for myself. Because on the upside of upchuck, Mike J, moved by the guilt of choosing a bad restaurant, finally Top-Friended me on MySpace. See? So not alone.

(You'll have to forgive the typing and spelling errors in this post. I'm using an Italian keyboard on what has to be the oldest computer I've ever seen, with a blinking green screen that might make me fall into a twitchy fit at any second.)

Several people have asked how I feel about traveling alone. It must be miserable! Or wonderful! And yes, yes it is.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised about this, but I am not homesick. At all. I miss my cat and my big, comfy bed and such, but I don't want to go home (though, in all honesty, I do have to remind myself of that when I am having a particularly frustrating TrainItalia experience and my back hurts and I really, really want a hot bath). It's Because of the way I'm wired that I don't get lonely. At least, not as a result of the absence of people. I get lonely when I don't feel wanted or appreciated. That is isolation. Exploring Venice without a partner, is not.

Most of the time, I've found that I love traveling alone - walking by myself, eating while absent-mindedly flipping through a guidebook (there are tomato stains all over mine), not stopping to see important works of art because I just don't want to. Spending twenty-two minutes trying to get just the perfect shot of some chubby-cheeked urchin trying to decide if feeding the pigeons is a safe activity to engage in. God, he was cute. And I love not having to worry about being somewhere or pleasing anyone. It's selfish and it's satisfying.

I miss touch, though. I could use a hug, or sixty, right about now.

And I wish, so much, that Sarah could be here with me. We wanted to see Italy together. And when I see gorgeous red shoes or a smoking hot gondolier, I think, Oh, Sarah. Where are you? But even Sarah and I would have to take alone time if she were here. Hours of it. Because I know that she, like I do, revels in the experience of swimming around in her own thoughts, and the freedom of stopping to take just one more picture of pretty window boxes without having to care if it holds anyone up.

When she asked how it was for me, being by myself, I wrote:

You know what's hardest? Being alone in my wrong-ness. Like when I go out to eat, and fumble around trying to find words, or to get what I want - I'm the only one looking like an ass. There's no one to turn to and say, "God, I hope I get the trout and not the tripe." That's what's hard.

But that's how it is. The selfish and the satisfying can turn so quickly into the empty and meaningless if there is no one to share it with. Which is why, dear Interweb, I thank the Baby J that all of this possible. Sharing things, without proximity or touching, with miles and miles between me and the ones I love. A photo sent to Sarah of beautiful red shoes. A message from Jamie, "Dallas misses you." An email to my mother that says, "Venice!" And one from her that says, "I worry. I'm glad you are safe."

So you see, I am alone here. But I am not lonely.

This story is for the turkey who suggested that we lay off the Lifetime Original Movies and stop imagining Bag Guys under the bed.

When I was in college, I had a roommate we'll call Ann. Ann was from a wealthy family; her dad was the local diamond guy and the family name was splashed across dozens of not-so affordable jewelry stores all over the state. The Diamond family had a large, lovely and security-monitored home not too far from our college apartment.

One night, their youngest daughter went to bed, and somewhere in that fuzzy hour between sleep and awake, became aware of a hand on her leg. Coming from under her bed. Now, being half asleep, her brain decided that it just had to be Ann's fiance, Cameron, playing a trick on her.

"Cameron! Get out!" she yelled.

When he didn't comply, she grabbed that arm and yanked. And yelled. And then he did, indeed, get out. Only, it wasn't Cameron. A stranger, with his pants around his knees, scrambled to his feet and made a run for it. The commotion brought her parents, and then the cops. By then, the man was long gone. But lest anyone suspect her of making up a horrific story, the cops documented an imprint they found in the carpet under her bed. The outline of a man who had laid very still for hour after hour. Waiting.

So, dearest Robert, you tell me to mind my imagination. But I have absolutely no doubt in my mind, that were something horrible to happen to me as a result of lowered defenses, you'd be the first person to suggest that I should be careful; it's a dangerous world out there.

Over her lifetime, one in four women will be the victim of sexual assault. One in four of those will be assaulted by a total stranger. Often in her own home. The problem is, you don't get to choose not to be the one in four. Or the one in sixteen. And that's enough to convince me that checking under my bed and in my closets is not, in the least bit, irrational.

But, don't you worry, Robert. Only roughly 7% of stranger-related sexual attacks will be perpetrated against men. You should be just fine.

Statistics courtesy of The Women's Self Defense Institute and the National District Attorney's Association. Don't agree with them? Take it up with them. I'm not here to argue.