On this day, 10 years ago, something terrible happened…
(Previously written and can be read here…)
On this day, 10 years ago, something terrible happened…
(Previously written and can be read here…)
You know how when you go to the doctor for a “problem” visit, they don’t really ask you the details of your illness/injury/situation until you’re sitting on your little bench in a back room with a loud ticking clocking, swinging your feet laughing? …or maybe I’m the only one who (often) sits on that bench, swinging my feet laughing…
Doctors and I are buddies. We laugh together and we cry (as a result of laughing) together. I visit them often and as a result have (a) No fear and (b) No shame. I am not a sickling, I don’t have a family history of poor health, and I am not a hypochondriac.
Instead, I have the rare and beautiful ability to injury myself in any and all places and situations and in the presence of people who usually think it’s a lot less funny than I do… which makes it all the more funny to me. I do have a couple of friends and supportive family who understand me to the core and who, I’d say, have a sixth sense when it comes to my injury-adventures. But that’s for another story.
Another running theme here will have to be these self-inflicted injuries, accidents, falls, burns, and etc. because as many funny dating stories as I have, I could match them with an embarrassing scar or doctor’s visit story. The following one, in a way, mixes the one with the daydream of the other…
Recently I visited my PCP (for the 4th time this year). I made a 10am appointment at 8am on the same day. After checking in, where I told the receptionist that I was there as a result of a burn, a nice older lady called my name, measured my weight and height and sent me off to my little room where I sat, swinging my feet off the bench giggling to myself at the ridiculousness of my life and excited to see the dumbfounded look on her face when I told her my story.
Here’s the scoop. I just recently moved into my own teeny-tiny wonderful one-bedroom apartment. I love living alone and take advantage of all of it’s perks. Like, you know, nakedness. I’m an article reader and have read multiple seemingly valid articles about how it’s mentally and emotionally healthy to allow yourself to spend time in the nude (you know, like confidence and stuff)… and like I said, I LIVE ALONE, and I do what I want. Hmph.
One late Friday night after only a couple glasses of wine (yes, only a couple), I decided that I would roast all of my vegetables for the week and that I would do so in my home-alone-state-of-undress. Well, I live downtown, across the street from a motorcycle-owner, behind a bar, right off of a main street, and within earshot of the fire station on the hill. So, needless to say, when I was removing the baking sheet of veggies, in said home-alone-state-of-undress, one of these noises startled me and I stumbled backwards slamming the baking sheet into my body at which point the world went a little fuzzy and I sat on the kitchen floor trying not to pass out…
So… I’m sitting on my little bench in the doctors’ office, waiting for the sweet older lady to return for my burn story, literally laughing out loud, when the door opens and God sends a little “building character” wink as a green-eyed, olive-skinned, tall, dark, and handsome medical student enters.
“Good morning, I’m R and I’m shadowing Dr. A today. *firm handshake* So let me get the rundown before she comes in and we can get you in and out of here this morning.”
“Soooo, your records say you’re in for a burn this morning. *looking at all of my limbs confused* …What happened?”
And then I just… said it… “I burnt my boob.” ….silence…. “With a baking sheet.” …silence… “I was cooking.” ….silence…. “Alone, alone, alone, alone!!!”
Medical Student R was having a hard time responding to me and I knew he wanted to laugh. Charming and professional as he seemed to be, he looked like this before he swiveled his chair around and faced away from me…
Because I’m relatively immune to these situation (aside from the initial shock of him walking in), I died laughing and said, “It’s hilarious, I know. Please, you can laugh. Seriously. Laugh. This is the story of my life. I laugh. Really. Laugh” And so we did. We laughed and laughed…
…Then the doc came in, determined my burn to be pretty infected, prescribed me an antibiotic ointment and antibiotic pill, and had Medical Student R assist in properly bandaging my… injury. Because, of course.
We’re healing up just fine, since I’m sure you’re wondering…. Pride and all.
I’m hesitant to write about my dating life because I’m still dating (don’t get confused, I’m currently quite single but you know, “dating” *eye roll*) and I would hate to end up meeting someone who already knew too much about my history or who’d worry that he’d end up in a story online. But some of the funniest, craziest “stories of my life” involve dating and what’s the point of misery and embarrassment if not for other people laugh at it? So, to protect the “innocent,” I promise to only share old dating stories and nothing too recent.
For now. Mwaha.
I am a happy and glorious 26 years old but also one of the last girls standing in my friend group – which is fine with me, truly. But when your friends all start getting “husband-ed/wifed up,” the likelihood, as it turns out, of meeting people through them or out-and-about with them, goes down. Like way down. And so the flickering screen of the online-dating-world beckons…
This will have to be a continuing theme in posts to come because I have a boo-coo of hilarious attempted dating stories, both online and off, but to kick it off… a relatively-tame quick awkward too-close-for-comfort meet-up that happened (not so) recently…
I think chances are, everyone lies on their online dating profile. I’ll admit to having my “Body type” listed as “About Average” which… I don’t know… I might teeter on the “A little more to love” line sometimes? Maybe? Nah. Eh? Yesssss. Dangit.
But that’s a thin line! (Ha.) And that’s not so bad, is it?! I met a guy whose online profile claimed 6’2… which really is kind of the “dream” height, not that I’m really deterred by any number but there’s a tiny little extra pep in your step on the way to meet 6’2. I’m too old and I’ve been out with one too many 6’2-ish losers to really care about height, but… I would have worn a shirt with a higher neckline…
After website-talking, then text message-talking, then phone-call-talking (gah, so exhausting), 6’2 and I met up at Cafe Caturra for a drink. He said he’d wait by the fireplace and he’d have a book, which was just… adorable… in theory. When I walked in, I saw lots of men with books, and one by the fireplace.
I’m 5’7. I recognize that maybe this is a little tall for a woman (Confirmed: Wiki says 5’4 is the average height for women in the US. *scoffs*), but it’s not that tall… unless you’re expecting Mr. 6’2 when Mr. 5’2 approaches…
Do you know what the difference is between 6’2 and 5’7 and 5’2 and 5’7? Well, for a woman, it’s the difference between a hug involving your head “on” his chest and his head “in” your chest. You know what I’m sayin’? … an innocent hug versus second base.
In my natural way, I tripped on my way to meet him halfway between the fireplace and the door (always happens) and in a laughing-fit-first-hug, Mr. 5’2, wanna be 6’2, kind of, I don’t know how to put this, bit …-ish my…Don’t make me say it.
We had a glass of wine in uncomfortable hysterics and then never spoke again.
…that is until I started seeing someone else… and accompanied him to party at his friend’s house… and what do you know, the house was owned by the guy who accidentally, publicly, within 2-minutes of meeting, bit(ish) my….
Don’t make me say it.
This is nothing compared to my book of dating stories. Please do stay tuned.
I’m having a hard time deciding where exactly to begin with this blogging game. So, I’m opting for a God-awful “story of my life” that never fails to leave people in shock and awe, crying-laughing, and feeling better about their own lives.
Vulnerability at it’s finest…
This story begins one beautiful morning in my twenty-first summer of life. CNU was offering a study abroad trip to Sicily, Italy. I don’t remember what the credit was (sorry mom and dad) but being a Communication Studies major meant- to me anyway- that it was all relevant.
The trip was a three-week session and really it was amazing. The getting there part, however…
I flew alone from Richmond to Newark where I met my classmates and together, we flew the 9 hours to Rome.
I’ve never really been afraid of flying. I have this weird non-fear of death that keeps me pretty calm (awaiting Elijah’s chariot!). My classmates, none of whom I knew at the time, were spread out all over the plane and, to my surprise (for the first and naturally last time) I was seated next to a young, charming, good-looking stranger who made flirty conversation for the first couple hours of the flight. He was meeting his sister in Rome to backpack across Europe and I saw stars.
To say that his and my relationship hit the fast track after those first two perfect hours together would be an understatement. It was an overnight flight, so the lights dimmed, the cabin got a little warmer, we shared an iPad to watch a movie, and soon everyone drifted off to sleep. I, comfortable with flying and thrilled with my seating assignment, ended up literally stuck in a bizarre dream where I was drowning somewhere about halfway over the Atlantic. In perfect timing, my new friend *cough*almost-love-of-my-life*cough* gently nudged me awake. I fought to open my eyes and realized that at some point, in perfect Rom-Com style, my head had come to rest on his shoulder and he was asking if I was okay. My first groggy thought was something of him being the perfect man; a world-traveler who genuinely “cares.”
I was having an unusually hard time waking up and finding the strength to lift my head off of his shoulder when panic and reality set in and I realized that I actually had been drowning. In real life. On an airplane. In the sky. In my own vom. On myself. And this guy’s shoulder. Yep!
At the risk of being too graphic, it was more of an awkward scary foaming-at-the-mouth-type-vom than a foody-vom. I’m not sure if looking back that sweet-head-rest-of-a-man considers that to be a blessing or a curse but I thought I was dying.
He must have been raised by a sweet woman and to this day I thank God for her and pray that one day I have the opportunity and strength to raise such a gentleman. He, though obviously horrified, offered me his water, found some napkins, and helped me regain full consciousness.
My memory of the rest of that flight is foggy; self hatred has a tendency to do that, I guess, but I have also never been so terribly sick in my entire life. Guy’s “sister” story very quickly turned into a “girlfriend” story and when we landed (something I only vaguely remember as delirium had set in), he high-tailed it off the plane, knocking over grannies and drink carts and never looking back. My hazy memory of him fleeing the scene doesn’t include him grabbing a carry-on so someone might have landed a free left-behind iPad that day. You’re welcome.
So, yeah, that happened but no, the tragedy doesn’t end there. Like I said our flight went from New York to Rome and our final destination was Sicily. There was one more flight to go. I was in such a state of hot-mess-death that I can only just barely remember the blur that was my life-hanging-by-a-thread in the airport bathroom mirror changing clothes and willing myself to live.
Second flight: I, still spinning from whatever this mysterious life-changing illness was, crawled onto the second plane and noticed my seat assignment next to poor unsuspecting young, charming, good-looking victim #2. I’m not really a cursing-woman but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to cursing like a sailor in my head that day. This one was a new classmate; someone I would see everyday, all day, for the next three weeks. I remember pausing in the aisle to give God a quick “ha, You are a funny one, aren’t You?!” and accept my fate before collapsing into my seat, slowly and intensely twisting my entire body to face him in total disbelief of my life, and fighting to keep my eyes from rolling back into my skull. He (Lord, thank you for goodhearted men) smiled, patted my head, and said “Not feeling so good, huh, friend?”
The phrase “actions speak louder than words” is forever proving itself true in my life. I barely remember whispering “I’m going to be sick,” hearing his seemingly far-off voice say, “hey babe, do your thing”, reaching for the vom-baggie in the seat pocket, face planting into it, and puking like I had guzzled poison. Then, as if I was watching myself from above, I remember my head slamming back against the head rest, my jaw dropping wide open, and passing the hell out, in which pathetic and horrifying state I remained, probably snoring, until the plane touched down again.
This entire extravaganza all happened before we had even pulled away from the gate and likely before they had even finished boarding the plane. Unfortunate-passenger #2 might have even buckled my seat belt for me. Now that I think about it… you did, didn’t you Stephen? I was weak and death-like when we landed in Sicily. Stephen, who ended up being quite the pal for the next few weeks, grabbed my arm, stood me up, brushed me off, laughed and said, “You’re going to be just fine, girl. Let’s get this party started.”
I like to think that had the day’s events been slightly (okay, yeah, drastically) different, one of these lovely men could have turned out to be my prince charming and we could have spent the rest of forever together laughing about how we met and fell in love…
But let’s get one thing straight… there are lots of crazy and adorable “this is how we fell in love” stories but none of them, NONE OF THEM will ever be about a girl exorcist-style vom-ing on boys on planes.