I was in the middle of explaining to my colleagues how I was sometimes tempted to reply to the infernal “what is the temperature like at the top of the mountain?” question that I needed to check my boobs.
As I ended this punchline with a demonstration of fondling my right breast. in walks the hired catering hottie. Silence reigned as my fellow ladies and I waited for his response.
With a bemused grin, Hottie McFly says:
“Oh, don’t stop on my account! How do you check the temperature on top?”
I blushed fifty shades of red and walking away giggling shyly.
“First date and you’ve sprained your ankle, huh? Tough break, my dear.At least he’s sticking around for now… maybe this will lead to better things”
This, Kids, is what Sharon the mystic healer was saying to me as she tried to infuse healing energy into my bruised ankle, whilst simultaneously trying to reassure me that my first date with Hellrider83 was not as disastrous as I thought it was.
She lied… it was!
In a spectacular imitation of my literary and cinematic heroine, Bridget Jones, I had managed to sustain a horrible ankle injury by slipping on the wet ground outside of Cavendish Square, on a busy Saturday morning with hundreds of witnesses.
Under any circumstances, this would have been embarrassing but , because this is my life and the Universe loves f***ing with me, this also just happened literally moments before I was to meet my latest OkCupid hottie for our first date.
As Sharon so sweetly tried to smooth down my billowing dress ( remind me NEVER to wear that ill-fated polka dot dress to another date!) so onlookers would not see my multiple tummy tuck-in tights and the security guards called for the first aiders, Hellrider83 came to find me.
Cue the awkward “So sorry about this. Could we possibly reschedule our first date?” conversation, with Sharon and co listening in.
Seriously…ground swallow me whole!
To his credit, Hellrider83 stuck around for the mucho embarrassing wheelchair ride through the mall and even offered to go with me to the nurse at Dischem to have my ankle wrapped but he looked hellavu relieved when I told him to go , I’d be fine and I would text him.
Which I did, and apologized profusely for my Joneseque behaviour and ….not a peep out of him. Nada, zilch, zero after three days. I’d been dumped, again, before even being dated.
F*** it! NEXT!
I wouldn’t mind, really, but by then, EVERYONE in Cavendish Square knew that this poor girl twisted her ankle whilst on a first date… the pity looks, the “Shame, my dear!” comments while trying to stop their tears of laughter running down their cheeks, were not doing my fragile ego any favours.
I was absolutely mortified for a split second, thinking that I had now further endorsed Americans ‘views on African citizens being uncouth. Then I realised, well f*** it, at least one other person had seen my fabulous ass in the Big Apple, and that’s ok with me.
Kids, I am exceptionally good at flirting with anything that moves when it comes to getting something I really, really want – like chocolate, another helping of dessert and a discount on my travel bookings.
When it comes to chatting up the opposite sex, though, I have no game. As in nada, zero, NOTHING!
It was a hot, gorgeous day at the mountain and I was waiting for my 12pm appointment. I figured it would be a routine tour of my company’s operations and I would be done with it but man, alive, was I in for a nice, good-looking surprise!
The minute I laid eyes on Wes in the reception area my tummy did a funny somersault and I started having all kinds of inappropriate fantasies.
Blonde, blue-eyed with a slight Goth vibe and extremely cute dimples, Wes was my type to a damn T and I hadn’t had that kind of reaction to a guy in a LONG time.
I got so flustered by how hot Wes was, I managed to walk into a door, knock into an open gate, drop my phone and blush so profusely, I looked like a dragon had scorched me – all in the space of 10 minutes.
Earth, swallow me whole!
The fact that he seemed to be bemused by my blunderings did not alleviate my embarrassment. I finally let the poor guy off the hook by leading him to a cable car and agreeing to catch-up on email before our next visit, where I would hopefully be much more composed.
Here’s a look at why Ms Jones and I were kindred spirits in the spring of 2016:
Lying to a preacher man:
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …ok, so I have never been to confession but if I ever do, I solemnly swear that I will never, EVER lie to a man of the cloth again as I did on a sunny September afternoon.
The holy man in question was a layman deacon and, unfortunately for me, the My CiTi bus driver who had a tendency to speak the word of God to me whether I wanted him to or not.
We had had a previous run-in a month earlier when I had set him straight about me not following the Islamic way and him trying to bully me into coming to church with him – obviously I refused. Have I mentioned I had major commitment issues, especially when it came to religion?
On this particular spring day, I firmly told Brother Simon that I did not want to speak to him about religious matters at all.
He condescendingly assured me he wasn’t going to preach to me and rather asked about my personal life i.e. was I married? Where was I living and whom with?
The man was starting to sound like a stalker and a single woman can never be too careful about her safety so I panicked and lied… I told him that I was unmarried but that I lived with He Who Shall Not Be Named and we’d been together for 10 years.
Sweet Mother of the Seven!
The man saw red and went off at me about how I was giving my body away to a user and sinning against God. He ranted and raved for the better part of 10 minutes about how He Who Shall Not Be Named was just using me for sex and didn’t respect me.
I couldn’t believe my ears – I had lied to shut this cleric up and here I was getting slut shamed instead!
Only in my wildest dreams would I be sinning all night every night for ten years…
Kids, I have never felt so ashamed of something I didn’t do in all of my life … Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
Eavesdropping on a noisy neighbour:
“Oh God! Oh God, Oh God … F***!”
By September 2016, I had been listening to my male and very vocal downstairs neighbour scream his gratitude to his Creator in the throes of passion for the better part of nine months.
The fact that he was doing this at 8pm and 1am respectively with his apartment windows left wide open for everyone in all of Vredehoek to hear his every grunt and movement aside, the thing that bothered me most was that I never heard his partner … which begs three questions: 1) was he gagging his companion, 2) was he using a blow-up doll or 3) was he just that good at loving himself?
More importantly, how the f*** did I politely ask him to keep it down?
I was sorely tempted to march down to his apartment the next time he got too loud and say: “ Look, if you aren’t going to be quiet about it, at least invite me in to join you!” but as we all know, I am utterly useless at chatting up men. I am also nowhere near that adventurous!
To avoid embarrassment, I quickly ran past his front door every time I needed to leave and prayed that I would never have to see him at a building meeting ever because I would blush all fifty shades of red for sure.