trujoy

So, I had a date last Saturday night, and any other single 25 year old postgrad knows that this is an exciting, and often rare, occassion to be savoured. Social events irrespective of boys are not an everyday occurance for the postgrad…you’d think that a social event with said boy would be a memory I could cherish to keep me warm through the long and lonely winter hiatus. Not so. Not so at all.

 It all went wrong the Thursday before when I climbed up a tree at my almer mater, and got bitten 73 times by some little bitey things. When I asked the mother what they could have been, she solemnly informed me that the proper name for such tree-dwelling insects is in fact “biteys”. I love Australia…our nicknames for items have become proper nouns. At any rate, I was itching like crazy and had these attractive red welts all over my body. I did consider cancelling the date, but figured that it wasn’t such a drama. I could wear long jeans, shoes and a long, long sleeved shirt and my beau would be none the wiser.

 Unfortunately, by Saturday I was scratching uncontrollably…I figured at this rate I probably wouldn’t be able to make it on the train without getting quarantined by health officials. And even if I did manage to make it to the date, he’d either think I had chicken pox, or was crazy, or both. So I decided to take some anti-histamines.

 I can feel some of you cringing already. Yes, anti-histamines are effective at stopping you from itching. They’re also incredibly strong and make you very drowsy. You’re not supposed to operate heavy machinery in case you fall into your cement mixer. It’s also a freaky coincidence that I’m not supposed to take anti-histamines with my current medication, because it apparently amplifies the effect (and no, I wasn’t aware of this when I took them, for those smart people out there who actually read labels). Amplifies the effect my toucas, by the time I was on the train, I was asleep. I did manage to wake up in time for my station though, because some youths were laughing at me so hard (I may have been drooling).

 So, this is my date…I could barely walk, barely concentrate, and all I wanted to do was sleep. My date, to give him credit, was doing his best to be lively, but he probably would have elicited a stronger reaction from a sheep. While we were at the restaurant, I excused myself to go to the toilet…and fell asleep in said cubicle! No, I am not exaggerating, I actually fell asleep, while on a date and in a public bathroom. When I woke up, I experienced the usual mild panic you encounter when you cross the threshold from sleep to wake, which was again amplified (that’s my word for the night) when I realized that I wasn’t entirely sure for how long I had been asleep.

 I sheepishly snuck back to the table, where my date was looking increasingly confused and mildly wary. I apologized, but didn’t tell him the cause. When the meals arrived, I ate like it was the last big hoe-in at the Alabama state chow down festival (because my reasoning was that you can’t sleep and eat at the same time). This was not helped by the fact that nice though my date was, I realized that there was no actual sparkage there, and that I was quite bored.

The meal finished, we started round two which was watching a horror movie at the cinemas. You guessed it, I fell asleep. I think I should get an award for managing to keep my eyes open until halfway through the movie. I think I may have snored. Everytime people screamed at the scarey bits, I woke up with a gargle.

 All bad things must come to an end, and thankfully this was true for my night as for any other. At the very least, I thought cheerfully, he’s not going to want a second date. I said goodbye and exited to the bathroom where I smugly congratulated myself for killing any romantic intentions the lad may have had (accidentally, but there you go), thereby avoiding the akward “I think you’re nice, but I just want to be friends” conversation.

 I must have been in there a good 15 mins, and when I exit, there is my date (looking slightly bemused - he must think I have a bathroom fetish or something). He said that he thought I might want a lift to the station. So, what a nice boy, but oh dear, please don’ t tell me that I went through all that only to have to have the “I think you’re nice but” converstation at a later date.

Moral to the story: don’t climb trees. Just don’t, ok. They are literally, the root of all evil.

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