I want it all.

My friend once told me that ‘It was strange that I always have a love interest on the go’. I denied this vehemently at the time, but a thorough examination of the last 3 years has revealed that she was in fact, stating facts. So I decided that I would cease looking for men in between my trysts and work on ‘being healthy alone’. I made a startling discovery today though. It is safer for the gene pool when I am not an active participant in it, because I am a pathological flirt. It is, in fact (yes, another one), a disease. I have flirted to get better seats on planes, served faster at restaurants, lifts home from friends, store discounts at shops I don't work at, and free coffees from Costa.

I don’t know where or how I learnt to flirt, and I must now take a moment to apologise to all those characters that were my guinea pigs in my experiential days. It does appear however, that I can now unwittingly flirt, even when I am trying not to, for the sake of a lust love interest. I was a patient model today on a course where doctors learn how to not kill people who have survived a traumatic experience. You might chuckle at that line, but it’s true. Your body is amazing at allowing you to survive things like road traffic accidents, even when your leg has been cut off- something or other to do with adrenaline. You then get to hospital where you relax (sometimes anyway), and everything in your body quietens down. Your sphincters loosen themselves, adrenaline seeps less quickly out of your body and you begin to fall apart. This is the moment where doctors should step in and save the day, but alas, it’s never that easy. Hence the course...

I was made up to look blue, which given I am black, was an interesting undertaking. I looked ashen. It was slightly scary, as I imagine that’s what I would look like when embalmed. I was wearing ‘model’ clothes, in the form of a child’s purple checked shirt (*gasp*), and a green, yes...green, linen skirt that was 55 sizes too big. I knotted it as much as I could, then eventually pinned it to my underwear. If anything came down, it was ALL coming down. So there I was, lying in fake blood, looking blue and ashen, having ‘broken’ ribs, my pelvis, and left leg. The door opened and... *cue suspense music*...the most beautiful specimen of a man walked in. He smiled then approached my neck and immobilised it, you know, to make sure I didn’t ‘fake-paralyse’ myself. If only he knew...

I smiled. I then winked. According to the instructions for the moulage, I was neither meant to smile nor wink. The fake nurse in the scenario began to laugh as well, because she could clearly see what I was doing. He carried on ‘examining’ me and I sagely nodded- the model patient helping him along. I wiggled my toes as I could not wiggle my bottom, hoping it was just as seductive. Not so much. So I arched my back a bit, because let’s face it, I don’t exactly have the largest breasts in the world so spreading of tissue while lying down did me no favours. All he said was ‘don’t move your neck, you might get paralysed’. So I froze, in a half arched position, which I can reliably report is very uncomfortable. It quickly got to the point where he was supposed to assess my pelvis fracture. He placed two hands on either side of my pelvis...and it all escaped me, in the form of a squeal and a giggle and a raising, ever so slightly, of my broken left leg (the collar prevented me from throwing my arms around him). It appears he had not only diagnosed and miraculously fixed my fractured pelvis, but he had also completely re-inflated my previously collapsed lung, and blunted my ‘pain’ enough to allow me to squeal and giggle. Even the facilitators laughed at this point. Yes, this was observed by 3 independent parties.

I quickly composed myself and re-assessed (which is what he was supposed to be doing) the situation, er..man. He was indeed beautiful. He had a beautifully square, but non-geometric jaw. Beautiful blue eyes were encased like almonds in lightly tanned sockets, held up by androgynously dimpled cheeks on either side. He had broad shoulders, good for picking up girls, and was wearing a blue sweater (which, with blue eyes, is #winning). I looked down. Unfortunately he was wearing khakis that were too large, and he appeared to have a similar knot in his trousers as I did in my skirt. A match made in heaven?! Definitely not. More like ‘BLEUUUGH’. The open akala-like slippers (Birkenstocks) topped it all off. We can’t have it all, after all. Oh, I’m also going to stop actively flirting, just in case you thought I had learnt little else. I can’t not smile though, 2 years of braces (railroad tracks) made sure of that. So...

Addendum: We might just be able to have it all. Apparently my friend said he dresses badly because maybe he doesn’t have a girlfriend. *thumbing through contacts to find this man*... JK.