This is a story that I’ve been dying to tell, but just couldn’t quite get it to fit in anywhere. So I’ve decided that it can be its own entity, a little break from the usual blog entries.
There are points in people’s lives where embarrassing and awkward things happen to them, but somehow they manage to narrowly escape them. And when you do escape, you feel like the luckiest human to be alive. Even a slight sense of smoothness is restored, replaced by an “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.
Often these situations happen when you are meeting people for the first time, or getting to know relatively new acquaintances. Situations where explaining whatever predicament you’ve gotten yourself into only makes you seem spastic and anxious.
I feel that these situations happen to me more than they do to others, but I don’t know…maybe I’m just the only person that talks about them. Either way, I believe at this point that you know what I’m talking about. We have all been there.
I mentioned Kashmira and Dadi before, and the wonderful Sunday lunch where they took me out and made me feel incredibly welcome. On the way back to school in their little red car, I spied a mosquito in the back seat with me. It was doing its usual mosquito thing- flitting around and buzzing, inching ever closer toward my virgin arm skin.
I decide this is the perfect opportunity to test how quick my reflexes are. I lie in wait in the back seat, listening to Kashmira talk about the next wedding she is planning. Then, silently, when the mosquito is in my reach, I strike.
One handed I grab it, and Kashmira and Dadi in the front are none the wiser. Those famous words from Mortal Kombat echo in my head, “Finish Him!”, and I open my palm slightly- squish it with my other hand to make sure it is really dead.
Feeling rather accomplished, I open both hands so that I can flick the mosquito’s carcass off of me and into the oblivion of the dark carpeted interior. But I am not pleased.
My hands are covered, just covered, in blood.
It’s like the little fucker went for a Happy Hour on my body, drunk off of its indulgence, which explained its easy capture. But now I have bigger problems.
“Shit,” I thought, “They’re probably going to want to shake my hand when we get back to school. I can’t give them blood-covered hands. That’s gross. They won’t want to have lunch with me again…”
These thoughts go ripping through my head. I wonder if I am being overdramatic. I decide that I probably am, but nonetheless, there's blood on my hands and that's not cool.
I look over in the back seat at my water bottle. Perfect. All I had to do was just slightly tip it in my hand, just enough to rinse the blood off. I slowly twist open the bottle, raise it to my palms, and-
CLUNK.
We go over a bump. Water goes everywhere.
I tilt the bottle back up quickly and look up to see if Kashmira and Dadi notice, but they don’t. They are talking about business. I look down at the floor.
Dammit.
The floor is not carpeted after all. It has one of those little rubber mats over the floor to keep shoes from getting mud everywhere. Water does not soak into rubber. They will wonder how all this water got here, perhaps even why I didn’t say anything. Even a casual “Whoops”, or a “Sure is bumpy!”, might have done the trick, but now it is too late. The road is smooth again. The bump has passed, unnoticed, not important enough to mention.
I slide my feet over the water. Maybe- maybe if I just keep it covered, it will dry before we get to school. We still have a little ways to go. I’ll just keep my feet over it and-
“Amanda, these are the pictures of the next venue. Isn’t it beautiful? Look at the fabrics!”
Kashmira is leaning into the back seat to show me some swatches of material. I clench my feet together and shift my weight, blocking the view of the water.
“Wow, it’s so pretty! You put it all together, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Make conversation. Distraction. Anything. You’re a genius, Amanda, keep up the good work. You’ll get out of this unscathed.
When Kashmira turns back up into the front seat, I slide the mat ever so slighty- into the sun. Where it cooks, simmers, evaporating the watery shame from its rubber face.
“So Amanda, what is your favorite subject at school right now?”
I flinch, covering the water back up again; but it is Dadi speaking, and he doesn’t turn around because he is driving.
“Oh, well, you know…I think I really like yoga the best.”
“Ah! Yoga. Is that so?”
This continues on for the next 10 minutes. I am on edge.
Maybe if it isn’t evaporated they won’t notice. After all, they have no real reason to look back here once I get out of the car…
But then I imagine Kashmira getting an important phone call from one of her associates. I am gone, dropped off at Tagore House, and she reaches into the back seat to pull out a glossy photo of the venue. Perhaps they are talking about flowers, or chair arrangements, any normal thing that wedding planners talk about. She pulls out an importance piece and her hand slips- dropping it into the rubber mat water. She will think, “How did this water get here? My photo- it is ruined! That was my only copy!” And the jig will be up, even though I won’t know it.
I think about these things all the way until we get to UH. As we pull up to my hostel, I finally look down.
It is gone.
…Mostly gone.
A few droplets remain, but other than that I am safe; unscathed, as I said before. Completely filled with that “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.
As I get out of the car to shake their hands (blood-free, I might add) I feel a certain sense of serenity. Everything has worked out. The sky has cleared, the fat woman sang, and I sped up a process of evaporation. My mistake is literally in the clouds.
I am a genius.
There are points in people’s lives where embarrassing and awkward things happen to them, but somehow they manage to narrowly escape them. And when you do escape, you feel like the luckiest human to be alive. Even a slight sense of smoothness is restored, replaced by an “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.
Often these situations happen when you are meeting people for the first time, or getting to know relatively new acquaintances. Situations where explaining whatever predicament you’ve gotten yourself into only makes you seem spastic and anxious.
I feel that these situations happen to me more than they do to others, but I don’t know…maybe I’m just the only person that talks about them. Either way, I believe at this point that you know what I’m talking about. We have all been there.
I mentioned Kashmira and Dadi before, and the wonderful Sunday lunch where they took me out and made me feel incredibly welcome. On the way back to school in their little red car, I spied a mosquito in the back seat with me. It was doing its usual mosquito thing- flitting around and buzzing, inching ever closer toward my virgin arm skin.
I decide this is the perfect opportunity to test how quick my reflexes are. I lie in wait in the back seat, listening to Kashmira talk about the next wedding she is planning. Then, silently, when the mosquito is in my reach, I strike.
One handed I grab it, and Kashmira and Dadi in the front are none the wiser. Those famous words from Mortal Kombat echo in my head, “Finish Him!”, and I open my palm slightly- squish it with my other hand to make sure it is really dead.
Feeling rather accomplished, I open both hands so that I can flick the mosquito’s carcass off of me and into the oblivion of the dark carpeted interior. But I am not pleased.
My hands are covered, just covered, in blood.
It’s like the little fucker went for a Happy Hour on my body, drunk off of its indulgence, which explained its easy capture. But now I have bigger problems.
“Shit,” I thought, “They’re probably going to want to shake my hand when we get back to school. I can’t give them blood-covered hands. That’s gross. They won’t want to have lunch with me again…”
These thoughts go ripping through my head. I wonder if I am being overdramatic. I decide that I probably am, but nonetheless, there's blood on my hands and that's not cool.
I look over in the back seat at my water bottle. Perfect. All I had to do was just slightly tip it in my hand, just enough to rinse the blood off. I slowly twist open the bottle, raise it to my palms, and-
CLUNK.
We go over a bump. Water goes everywhere.
I tilt the bottle back up quickly and look up to see if Kashmira and Dadi notice, but they don’t. They are talking about business. I look down at the floor.
Dammit.
The floor is not carpeted after all. It has one of those little rubber mats over the floor to keep shoes from getting mud everywhere. Water does not soak into rubber. They will wonder how all this water got here, perhaps even why I didn’t say anything. Even a casual “Whoops”, or a “Sure is bumpy!”, might have done the trick, but now it is too late. The road is smooth again. The bump has passed, unnoticed, not important enough to mention.
I slide my feet over the water. Maybe- maybe if I just keep it covered, it will dry before we get to school. We still have a little ways to go. I’ll just keep my feet over it and-
“Amanda, these are the pictures of the next venue. Isn’t it beautiful? Look at the fabrics!”
Kashmira is leaning into the back seat to show me some swatches of material. I clench my feet together and shift my weight, blocking the view of the water.
“Wow, it’s so pretty! You put it all together, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Make conversation. Distraction. Anything. You’re a genius, Amanda, keep up the good work. You’ll get out of this unscathed.
When Kashmira turns back up into the front seat, I slide the mat ever so slighty- into the sun. Where it cooks, simmers, evaporating the watery shame from its rubber face.
“So Amanda, what is your favorite subject at school right now?”
I flinch, covering the water back up again; but it is Dadi speaking, and he doesn’t turn around because he is driving.
“Oh, well, you know…I think I really like yoga the best.”
“Ah! Yoga. Is that so?”
This continues on for the next 10 minutes. I am on edge.
Maybe if it isn’t evaporated they won’t notice. After all, they have no real reason to look back here once I get out of the car…
But then I imagine Kashmira getting an important phone call from one of her associates. I am gone, dropped off at Tagore House, and she reaches into the back seat to pull out a glossy photo of the venue. Perhaps they are talking about flowers, or chair arrangements, any normal thing that wedding planners talk about. She pulls out an importance piece and her hand slips- dropping it into the rubber mat water. She will think, “How did this water get here? My photo- it is ruined! That was my only copy!” And the jig will be up, even though I won’t know it.
I think about these things all the way until we get to UH. As we pull up to my hostel, I finally look down.
It is gone.
…Mostly gone.
A few droplets remain, but other than that I am safe; unscathed, as I said before. Completely filled with that “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.
As I get out of the car to shake their hands (blood-free, I might add) I feel a certain sense of serenity. Everything has worked out. The sky has cleared, the fat woman sang, and I sped up a process of evaporation. My mistake is literally in the clouds.
I am a genius.
Amanda, you're so awesome. Seriously, you've had more fun in these few weeks in Hyderabad than I've had in four summers there, haha
ReplyDeleteHahaha. That was amazing. And a close one. :-)
ReplyDeleteI am Fickle Cattle.