Okay, so all this health got a bit much for me so I decided to fall off the wagon for some excitement.
And boy was it ever.
It all started very innocently.
I went out for a coffee with my old friends the (mad) oral hygienists.
For they understand me.
What I didn’t fully understand about them is that they really are still quite mad.
And what nobody told me was that this coffee would turn into a full-fledged all-nighter, complete with dancing, repeatedly falling over and flirting shamelessly with pubescent boys...and sometimes even their girlfriends.
But to top it all off, I had a great time. My friend, we’ll call her Eldelle-da...That’s it Eldelda...um, Wynvrou. Eldelda Wynvrou got so slaughtered that she turned into one of the Dawn of the Dead extras. You know, the type that stares aimlessly into the night, mouth hanging open (maybe even a bit of drool sliding onto her bottom lip), hands outstretched, making that “AAAAAHHHHHHHH!” sound whilst advancing on a person.
She scared me a little, but it’s okay because I scared everyone else. Now, because I had no idea that I was going out that night, I was dressed in a regretful polo neck. It used to be black but now it’s grack (grey-black). I also don’t actually know where it came from but it either belonged to my ex boyfriend or someone who came over to my house and left without their shirt. This might or might not describe a wide range of people. I guess we’ll never know who this hideous polo neck belonged to. They probably left it here on purpose.
Because, believe it or not, I can’t stop wearing it, it’s just so darn comfortable!
The impressive part is that even while wearing this grack polo neck, dirty sneakers and a drab old jean, boys in their (alleged) early twenties still sauntered over to me on the dance floor and did that whole “well hello there, little lady” thing.
I was wildly excited about this and immediately went into research mode, asking them their names, ages and professions. Then every now and again my husband would drift over to take my drinks orders and they’d want to know who this scruffy-looking individual is. My husband, I’d say. Then a funny thing would happen. Guys three times the size of Sean would back away from me very quickly, stammering apologies and opening their hands in defensive gestures. Sean would gaze at them with beady eyes, shrug and stroll back to his pool table and new best friends. This entertained me.
To be fair, I never approached anyone, only interrogated the ones that approached me. Or Eldelda, who seemed to radiate feminine charm with her staring, vacant eyes and uncanny impersonation of autism.
I danced around her, singing threats at the adolescents who dared advance on her. This was good because by now I also know that she needs steadying in this state (she thinks she’s dancing but she’s really cart wheeling her arms while tripping over other people’s drinks).
Anyway, somewhere during the night I decided that I wouldn’t mind having a couple on special occasions. And the last time any of my friends lost their minds like this was so long ago that this definitely qualified as one.
I went over to the bar and ordered my first alcoholic drink for the night: Savannah (even though it’s not dry enough). I did this because I had to act quickly before I changed my mind about drinking and therefore didn’t have time to wonder about which drink will actually taste AND feel good, simultaneously. What I also didn’t know is that there was a special promotion going on with Savannah, presumably to get people to drink it.
Along with my icy drink, the barman handed me a yellow card, folded in half with the words “Do you feel lucky?” on it.
Obviously I didn’t, so I tossed it into my bag for want of a better place and went about my business. You ever seen that movie Pure Luck with Martin Short? Sometimes I remind myself of that dude.
If there is a loose stone, I will fall over it.
If there is something to be gained, I won’t.
If for some reason someone chucked a grenade into a crowd, I will inevitably catch it (even though I can’t catch a ball if you rolled it to me).
By the second drink I felt a bit devil-may-care, possibly from downing it, and asked the suddenly very cute bar tender what this yellow card-thingy is, asked while twirling a strand of my hair around my finger.
(I like playing the dumb blonde when I go out; it’s amazing what people will tell you if they think you’re stupid.)
The bar dude obviously liked a more intellectual type and must have decided not to dignify my question with an answer for he took the card, ripped it open, disappeared into a back room and reappeared with a (ghastly) yellow T-shirt.
He handed it to me and turned to the next (also hair-twistingly stupid) customer, with a bored expression.
I started seeing a pattern. I buy Savannah, get yellow card, give card to bartender and receive gift.
I liked the unfolding of these events because winning stuff has never been a strong point of mine. As a result whenever I won anything, e. g. a free apple or a certificate with my name on it or even just a pat on the back, it had a powerful effect on me.
This was no different...except I was under the influence, so the feeling of satisfaction that washed over me at that point was extraordinary and drug-like.
I took the previous card that I had tossed so carelessly into my bag earlier, back to the bar guy and he handed me... a duffle bag!
I’ve never owned a duffle bag!
My brain positively swam in serotonin, I went into an ecstasy trance (without taking any), telling everyone, including the unsmiling bouncer, that I am the luckiest girl in the world and have they lost weight because they are lookin’ good!
I went to the dance floor to work off some of this happy energy and a Michael Jackson song started playing! I was super-excited! I danced and jiggled, and wiggled and piggled and eventually expressed my affection for Michael J to the guy dancing a few feet away. He looked scared and went away. I guessed that it must be my age (dude, 27 is OLD!)
I was parched from all the boogying (MJ’s my BOY!), so I went back for a third and final Savannah...and won A TWO GIG MEMORY STICK! It was packaged beautifully in a little box that reminded me of jewellery.
This was better than jewellery, this was better than sex! Or cheesecake! Or all of the above.
Finally my luck has turned. Unfortunate no longer, I sprinted through the club, grabbing people by their collars, exclaiming my good fortune in a “The end is nigh” voice.
Almost hushed with wonder, I presented my unexpected treats to an equally impressed husband and a random guy that I think I went to high school with (urm...Marius? Mauritz?).
His girlfriend was HOT, he NEVER had girls like that in school.
Some of the other amazing things that happened on my night out was that I’ve never seen so many teenage girls in such tiny dresses, I got the DJ to play MJ again (he also looked afraid) and I almost managed to convince my husband to take a couple of young boys home with us.
What a party pooper.
I suspect that if I were a guy I would have eventually consumed a knuckle sandwich with some extra All Gold...but I’m not, so weeeeee!
For this one night, the stars aligned in my favour. The club was my oyster! People listened to me! With a slight dazed look, sometimes, but still.
Even the bartender was suddenly friendly.
I felt like I was on a lucky streak in a big shot casino where people would want to rub my hands to get some of it.
In hindsight, I probably should have skipped over to one.
That way I might have had thousands of rands the next day instead of a hangover and a lingering feeling of embarrassment.
Luckily I didn’t take anyone’s phone number so I couldn’t call and apologise for being a giant idiot.
Flashback Alert! I remember one night in the not-distant-enough past, when we went to watch some bands at Cafe Arc where I hung around the muso’s all night expressing my appreciation.
I might have said something along the lines of:
“I too am a mushician and I’ve sheen oh sho many terrible bandsh but YOU...were amazhing...oopsh I think I threw up on myshelf a little bit.”
And I thought the shine in their eyes was mutual respect from one muso to another.
My husband, (boyfriend and partner-in-crime at the time) later told me he overheard one of the band members asking the other one what he thinks about the babe in the orange heels...me.
I was delighted of course...respect is for wussies.
He called me a babe!
Plus he noticed my fabulous orange heels!
I might have felt slighted the next day but I think everyone did. The party was full-swing, wing-ding material and they always leave one feeling a bit like a dick, don't they?
Of course, I was wrong about my luck turning.
But for a while, I went into a fugue of feverish optimism, scouring the net for a well-paid, high-satisfaction job where you need no experience or a qualification and in fact the only requirement is that you must be me, Elmien, and no one else. I sent my CV to the whole earth.
And sure enough, me being the old charmer I am, one recruiter phoned me up to organise an interview.
During the interview he seemed confused...and nervous...what is it with me?
Am I really that strange? Or is it just my beauty that threw him?
I mean I’ve been on pills for MONTHS, surely I’m normal by now?!
I know the psychiatrist never actually SAID that the tablets will make me like everyone else but I sure hoped.
The main thing the recruiter, Russel-my-man, seemed confused about was the fact that I’m a “retired” oral hygienist masquerading as a creative writer.
He asked me whether I’ve written anything good lately and naturally I denied being of any value as a writer, as a matter of fact I’m downright shit at it.
Why do writers do this? I’ve read countless autobiographical pieces by Stephen King where he accused himself of being awful and “slumming it”.
Luckily Russel-my-man wasn’t interviewing me for a writing position as he works mainly with healthcare professionals going through identity crises, much like me.
He advised me not to breathe a word of this “writing fantasy” of mine in any future interviews and I gave him my solemn promise that I wouldn’t.
Heck, I’m just happy not falling over when I’m on my way to shake the hand of my prospective employer.
I managed not to trip as I left the coffee shop, feeling his eyes follow me out, probably shaking his head in exasperation.
I’m thinking of booking myself in somewhere nice...Denmar Psychiatric Hospital comes to mind. I’ve heard only moderately nightmarish things about it. Plus maybe these tablets only work under supervision.
Like builders.
Right, in the meantime I’ve received exactly zero phone calls from R-m-m and went a little bit crazy again.
People like me are easily disappointed to find out that nobody gives a shit. Of course our families, friends and if you’re lucky enough to have them, co-workers care but they aren’t the ones who count, for some reason.
We want the man on the street to come up to us and assure us of our value to society at large. We want strangers calling us up, literally begging us to come and work for them in their amazing, made-only-from-glass office buildings. People must pant with admiration at our talents!
This never happens. Not even in dreams. I ALWAYS trip on my way out of coffee shops in my dreams, presumably because my subconscious mind is an asshole.
Now there’s something that the tablets HAVE been doing.
Sleeping is almost but not quite entirely unlike an acid trip.
Now, I’ve always had hectic dreams, the kind that would put an alarmed expression on Joseph’s (the dream analyst with the colourful coat from the Bible) face. Or have I got my Bible stories mixed up again?
I’d probably be burned at the stake or chucked into a nearby stream to see if I float.
Once I dreamt that my cat puked a (live) tarantula that then proceded to chase me up and down a strange hut of some sort.
These days, I dream of other worlds, places and things that don’t (yet) exist. I am also never myself in these dreams.
I am a tomb-raiding, Bond-like, Indiana Jones-esque female figure who kicks ass and chews bubblegum at regular intervals. These dreams are almost inevitably riddled with daring sexual encounters and fearless flirting with death.
And I’m loving it.
Going to bed at ten and getting up at ten the next day has never been so awesome.
Now that you mention it, I think it’s time for my afternoon nap.
