Everyone dreams of being famous, right? I did too—until my big break landed me on the front page of the newspaper… mid-scream, mid-fall, mid-catapult off a modelling ramp. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t exactly the glamorous headline I had in mind.
Picture this: I’m 15 years old, already a towering 6 feet tall. My poor mother was beside herself. She had visions of me spending my teenage years as a human beanpole, permanently hunched over trying to look “normal height.” Desperate to fix this, she tried ballet when I was about seven. That ended quickly. The ballet teacher took one look at me and basically said, “Sorry, kid, you’re too tall. Try basketball.”
So fast forward a few years, my friend signs up for a modelling course, and my mother jumps on it like it’s the answer to all our prayers. After all, she’d been a model in her youth and was convinced that modelling would magically transform me into a swan with perfect posture. She went on and on about how, in her day, “deportment” was everything. They literally balanced books on their heads, shoulders back, gliding gracefully down the catwalk like floating angels.
The 80s, however, were a different story. Our instructor didn’t hand out books to balance—she just told us to “turn here, smile there, walk like you’re not about to trip.” And for some reason, I was the only student who needed constant reminders to put my shoulders back. Every five seconds it was, “Carol, shoulders!” Maybe I had subconsciously started slumping out of sheer rebellion—or maybe I was just allergic to good posture. Either way, it drove me nuts.
And then there was my other “issue.” According to Shirley, our long-suffering instructor, I just could not, for the life of me, stop singing. Every time we walked to the music, I was basically Julie Andrews twirling through the Alps in The Sound of Music. Shirley would hiss at me like a furious librarian: “Carol! Mouth closed!” But honestly, how was I supposed to resist? A good beat deserved backup vocals.
After weeks of training (and rebukes), graduation night finally arrived. We had to strut three routines: beachwear, daywear, and evening wear. And here’s the kicker—we had to supply our own outfits. Since money was a bit tight, my mother dusted off a relic I didn’t even know she owned: a sewing machine. To this day, I suspect it had been hiding in a cupboard since the 1960s.
Let’s just say the results were… memorable.
First up: my beachwear outfit. A knickerbocker set. Yes, knickerbockers. Blue with white frills everywhere—neckline, sleeves, pant legs. Honestly, I looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy goes to Miami. But hey, I wore it with all the dignity a 15-year-old could muster.
Next came “daywear.” My mother had hacked a long dress pattern into a mini-dress with an uneven hemline. It was less “fashion” and more “DIY upholstery project gone rogue.” But compared to the knickerbockers, it was practically Chanel.
Finally, evening wear. My mother had run out of time and surrendered to reality, so she took me to Scott’s, the fancy dress shop in town. I scored a frilly white number that made me feel like Cindy Crawford on prom night. My confidence skyrocketed—I was owning that runway.
Until… disaster struck.
I was halfway through my final turn, absolutely basking in the glory of my moment, when I caught Shirley on the sidelines, gesturing wildly like she was landing a plane and mouthing the words:
“STOP. SINGING!!!!”
My heart sank. In my horror at committing the cardinal sin of the runway strut, I forgot the whole walking in heels part. Next thing I knew, I was airborne—catapulting sideways off the ramp (which, I swear, was a good three feet off the ground). I nearly flattened some poor dad in the front row.
And of course—that’s when the photographer snapped the shot. Me, mid-“silent” scream, arms flailing, ruffles flying. And where did this masterpiece end up? Smack on the front page of the local Northglen News. Not the society pages, not even the classifieds—the front page.
Really???
And so, that was my brush with fame—front-page glory, immortalized not as a glamorous model, but as the girl who sang her way right off the catwalk.
Moral of the story? Be careful what you wish for. Everyone wants their name in lights… I just didn’t realize mine would be in bold print under the headline: “Teen Model Takes a Tumble.”
Turns out fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—sometimes it’s just a bruised knee and an even more bruised ego.
Following my nightmare odyssey from Miami to Tampa (a trip that still haunts me like a bad country song), the rest of the holiday was—miracle of miracles—incident-free. Well… almost.
The only hiccup was that I had to share a hotel room with my parents and my aunt. All three of them snore—not just regular snoring, but competitive, synchronized snoring. I’m talking the kind of deep, guttural, freight-train-meets-blender sound that could make an insomniac weep.
The Snore Games: Midnight Bathtub Retreat When sharing a room means sleeping with the snore symphony.
Most nights, I’d last maybe ten minutes in the bed I was sharing with my aunt before my sanity started to fray. Then, in a dramatic midnight exodus, I’d grab my blanket and relocate to the bathtub. Yes—the actual bathtub. With the bathroom door shut for extra soundproofing. I’d curl up like a slightly disgruntled cat, convincing myself it was “cozy” while quietly mourning my spine.
Meet the Hallmark Cousins—and Their Perfect Lives Why jealousy is a powerful motivator.
When the trip wrapped up, I had planned to spend a few days with my cousins before flying home. This was my first time meeting their husbands, and I’ll admit, I had a moment of pure, green-eyed envy. They were both so lovely, so warm, so disgustingly functional. Their lives seemed straight out of a Hallmark movie—handsome husbands, two kids each, cute houses, family photos where no one blinked.
My cousin Jennifer, a kind-hearted angel who apparently moonlights as a matchmaker, listened to my tales of tragic dating and had an idea. “Why don’t you move to Florida?” she suggested. “Come to our church. That’s how both of us met our husbands. You could meet a nice guy here too!”
It was like she had handed me a golden ticket to the Love Lottery. Their lives looked so perfect, I was ready to buy into the dream wholesale. When I got home and told my mom about this “Operation: Husband Hunt,” she practically started packing my bags for me.
By Monday morning, I was in the office handing in my resignation, smiling like a woman about to be swept into a Nicholas Sparks novel. My mom, fully invested in my romantic quest, bought me a ticket back to Florida. And just a few weeks later, I boarded that plane—determined to find myself a husband in America.
Because honestly, what could possibly go wrong?
Saint Jennifer’s House: A Bedroom Shuffle for Love Making room for romance, one child at a time.
The plan was for me to stay with Jennifer, who, bless her saintly heart, rearranged her entire household to make room for me. She even moved one child into the other’s bedroom—a small but noble sacrifice in the name of my grand romantic mission. Honestly, it felt like the kind of selfless act that should be commemorated with a plaque.
The Singles Sunday School Illusion Where men lurk… or don’t.
I arrived brimming with anticipation, fully convinced I’d meet the man of my dreams at their church. According to Jennifer, the real magic didn’t happen during the Sunday service itself—oh no—it happened afterward, in the Singles Sunday School class. That’s where all the eligible men supposedly lurked, waiting to be swept away by a God-fearing woman with excellent hair.
At no point in this elaborate plan did I actually consult God. I simply assumed He’d be on board. I mean, why wouldn’t He? I was attempting to marry a wholesome Christian man—surely this was His department. Never mind the fact that my lifestyle up to this point had been a little more… spirited… than saintly. But if Jennifer, a proper Baptist girl, could find love at church, then clearly I could too.
Culture Shock: Quitting Smoking and Living Like a Raccoon The price of American independence.
There was, however, one immediate sacrifice required: I had to quit smoking. I figured it would be easy—after all, I was giving up a vice in exchange for a husband. Seemed like a fair trade. Spoiler: it was not easy. It was pure, unfiltered agony. Nearly as agonizing as my second, unexpected culture shock—apparently, in America, you clean up after yourself. No domestic worker magically appearing to pick up your clothes, make your bed, and bring you tea. You either stayed tidy or slowly descended into living like a feral raccoon. This was not in my romance plan.
Invisible at Church: The Unseen Outsider When your social skills don’t translate.
Still, I had bigger things to focus on—like Sunday. My first church service arrived, and off we went. Afterward, we headed to the much-hyped Singles Sunday School class, where, presumably, I’d be wooed by a charming, Bible-quoting bachelor. Instead, I found myself standing in a room full of strangers who somehow made me feel even stranger. No amount of strategic makeup or stylish outfits could hide the fact that I was an outsider—a slightly sinful stray who had wandered into the fold.
But I didn’t give up. Week two rolled around, and Jennifer handed me her car so I could drive myself to church. On the wrong side of the road. I figured my ability to survive American traffic was at least an attractive quality in a mate. But week after week, the same thing happened—nothing. No smiles, no coffee invites, no “Hey, let’s do a Bible study together.” It was as if I’d been issued an invisibility cloak at the door.
The only thing I was attracting was mild jet lag and a creeping sense of doom.
I’m not sure what I’d been expecting. Maybe some breathtakingly handsome man—think my cousin Jackie’s husband, but single—would spot me across the room, be struck by divine lightning, and immediately drop to one knee in the fellowship hall. Instead, I was just another anonymous face in a sea of well-adjusted, church-going people who could somehow smell that I was wildly out of my element.
And yet, I persisted. I mean, I hadn’t quit smoking and house-trained myself for nothing.
After several weeks of coming home from church with exactly zero romantic prospects, Jennifer began to… gently apply pressure. Nothing too overt, just the occasional “helpful” suggestion, a few pointed questions, and the odd reminder that maybe—just maybe—I could be putting in a bit more effort.
The problem? I suffered from a chronic case of Cinderella Syndrome, courtesy of Hollywood. In my head, I wasn’t supposed to look like I was hunting for a husband. No, my knight in shining armor was supposed to just appear—preferably on horseback—fall instantly in love, and sweep me off to our happily-ever-after. Instead, all I was getting was Jennifer’s unsubtle hints that perhaps I needed to make myself a bit more… noticeable.
So Sunday mornings went from being filled with hopeful anticipation to being filled with dread. How exactly was I supposed to stand out in a sea of polished, wholesome singles? Wear a tiara? Trip in front of the communion table?
And then—finally—luck struck. Or divine intervention. Or maybe just a random act of social bravery.
Snack Table Salvation How desperation can make rodents seem charming.
That Sunday, in a desperate bid to look approachable, I forced myself to grab something from the snack table instead of making my usual quick exit. I even sat down to eat, pretending I wasn’t silently calculating how quickly I could leave.
That’s when it happened.
He approached.
Let’s call him Matt.
My first impression? Matt looked like a rat.
I know, I know—terrible. But hear me out. He had jet-black hair, a long, skinny face, a very prominent (read: enormous) pointy nose, and a small mouth. If you’d told me he moonlighted as a villain’s sidekick in a Disney movie, I would have believed you.
Still, credit where credit’s due—he was the first man in weeks to actually approach me, and for that alone, I felt obligated to at least pretend to be interested.
As expected, our conversation opened with my accent. This was my standard church interaction: “Oh wow, where are you from?” Followed by the usual Greatest Hits: “Do you ride elephants? Is it safe? Do you know Charlize Theron?”
I played along, but I was also subtly scanning the room, just in case a less rodent-esque man was lurking nearby, waiting for his turn. Alas, the crowd seemed almost aggressively indifferent to my existence, so I resigned myself to giving Matt the Rat my undivided attention.
After a while, he glanced at his watch and said he had to go—but plot twist—he invited me to a cookout one of the girls from the Sunday School class was hosting.
The Cookout Invitation When a number exchange feels like signing a treaty.
A social event! My inner Cinderella immediately perked up. Surely this was the perfect opportunity to expand my options, get some much-needed exposure to other men, and maybe—just maybe—meet someone who didn’t look like he could gnaw through drywall.
Then came the moment of truth—Matt asked for my number so he could send me the details.
I hesitated.
This was clearly a man with a plan. And while I wasn’t exactly swooning, I figured accepting the invite might improve my odds. A cookout meant casual mingling, plenty of people, and—most importantly—a brand-new playing field.
So, with a mix of optimism and mild concern, I handed over my number and braced myself for whatever came next.
Jennifer’s Reluctant Sidekick Dragging a non-party animal to the social minefield.
I know this sounds pathetic, but I practically begged Jennifer to come with me to the singles’ cookout. Thankfully, her husband understood just how socially inept I’d become without the crutch of alcohol and gave her the green light. This was no small favor—Jennifer is many wonderful things, but “life of the party” is not one of them (that crown belongs to her sister, Jackie). So, I knew she was doing this purely out of love.
We arrived and quickly got swept into a conversation with a little huddle of other girls—clearly also there to scope out the field but far too nervous to leave their protective wallflower cluster. Safety in numbers, I suppose.
Enter the Rat-Man.
Matt slithered into the circle like it was his natural habitat, planting himself right next to me. Once again, he launched into conversation while I nodded, smiled, and engaged just enough to be polite, all the while scanning the crowd for any non-rodent-like knight who might swoop in and save me. No such luck. Even the wallflowers eventually found a socially acceptable escape route, leaving me trapped in one-on-one small talk purgatory.
After what felt like several decades, Jennifer mercifully announced it was time to go. I had survived. Barely.
Unfortunately, my survival was short-lived. Not long after, Matt called and asked me out on a date.
Jennifer was elated. I was… significantly less elated.
Friday arrived, and so did Matt. Coincidentally, my cousins and my aunt were all “visiting” when he came to pick me up. They sat at the kitchen table like a welcoming committee, smiling warmly as he introduced himself and turned on the charm.
Eventually, he announced he’d made a dinner reservation. When pressed for details, he just smiled and said, “It’s a surprise.”
Intriguing.
After a loooong drive (not only in miles but in awkward silence), we pulled up to the Don CeSar Hotel—the legendary Pink Palace of Florida. I’ll admit, I was impressed. This was no casual Applebee’s date. This was full-blown romantic.
Matt’s One-Man Show Hamsters, weather, and the art of not asking questions.
We dined in a courtyard overlooking the ocean, the warm breeze adding to the dreamy ambiance. It was the kind of setting you’d see in a romantic movie—except in my movie, I was desperately wishing someone else was sitting across from me. To make matters worse, Matt did not stop talking. The entire dinner was a one-man show about Matt: his job, his hobbies, his thoughts on Florida weather, his childhood pet hamster. Not once did he ask me a single question. By the time the main course arrived, I could have drawn a detailed diagram of his extended family tree, yet he still didn’t know what I did for a living. And these were the dark ages before cell phones, so there was no fake “urgent text” to rescue me—I was trapped until the bitter end.
By dessert, Matt was already talking marriage. At some point, I must have mentally checked out of his constant monologue—nodding and smiling on autopilot—because I suddenly realized he had probably just spent the last twenty minutes listing all the reasons why this one dinner should fast-track into a wedding date. For all I knew, he’d already picked the church, ordered the cake, and decided what our future children would be named… and I’d just been sitting there, wondering if the ocean breeze was strong enough to blow me out of my chair.
I broke out in a cold sweat, flashing back to the Duncan Proposal Incident, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in. Since “flight” wasn’t an option when you’re trapped at a five-star resort, I chose Option C: nervous laughter and strategic subject changes.
When I finally got home, Jennifer was practically glowing. In her mind, I was now officially on the fast track to getting a ring on my finger—just when she’d been about to lose all hope.
I, on the other hand, had vowed never to take another call from Matt and never set foot in that church again. Now all that was left was to break the news to my poor, sweet Jennifer—who had probably already picked out her bridesmaid dress and was mentally rehearsing her toast for the wedding reception.
Little did I know, this was only the opening act in what would become 101 Disastrous Dates in America—and if Matt the Rat was my warm-up, heaven help me for what was coming next.
They say laughter is the best medicine—and I agree. I aim to have at least one good belly laugh every day. Sometimes that comes from a well-timed joke, other times from YouTube. But yesterday, a video of people flying off treadmills sent me into a full belly-laugh spiral… mostly because it triggered a memory I’ve never quite lived down.
Laughter Really Is the Best Medicine
The Daily Goal: One Good Belly Laugh
I’ve always maintained (as the Bible has) that laughter is good medicine. I try to make it my aim to have at least one good belly laugh a day. Sometimes you have to resort to watching videos, and sadly, the most laughter often comes from watching other people do dumb things.
The Trigger: A Compilation of Treadmill Fails
Yesterday, I stumbled across a compilation of people flying off treadmills at the gym. And I laughed—with extra gusto—because it brought back a very specific memory.
Back to the 90s: A Scene Set for Disaster
Not Sicily—But La Lucia
Picture it—no, not Sicily—but the Health & Racquet Club in La Lucia, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, in the late 90s.
The Durban North Gym Vibe
Granted, I lived in La Lucia, but people came from miles around to work out at this gym. It was the place to be seen if you were part of the trendy Durban North crowd. Think: “after work, before drinks”. Girls in matching crop tops and leggings barely breaking a sweat. Guys flexing like peacocks in mating season.
My Reason for Being There Was Different
No Fashion, Just Function
I wasn’t there to mingle. I didn’t have the fashion budget, and I never cracked the nod into those circles. I was there because I needed to exercise. And for me, sweating was inevitable.
Not Sporty by Nature
Now, I’ve never been one of those naturally sporty types. I need external motivation: a committed gym buddy or a good beat. Since I didn’t have the first, I relied on the second—my trusty “walkman.” Not the sleek cassette one, mind you. No, this was a portable CD player the size of a small stereo. This was pre-Bluetooth, pre-anything convenient. If you wanted to change the song or the volume, it required the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb disposal units.
The Treadmill Incident
A Blasé Mistake
I’d been doing this treadmill thing for a while, so I guess I got a bit blasé. One packed evening, I finally nabbed a treadmill. You only had 30 minutes, so I hopped on and got it going immediately. Then I turned to my walkman. Slipped the giant CD player into the bottle holder, popped the earphones on… nothing. Silence.
Distraction and Disaster
I figured the batteries might be dead. But by now, I was already moving at a decent pace and desperate for my music fix. While fiddling with the buttons—distracted and probably muttering under my breath—my foot strayed just slightly off center.
Takeoff and Impact
That was all it took. My whole body catapulted off the back of the treadmill. The walkman flew into the air like a Boeing, soaring over the white railing… and directly toward the indoor pool downstairs.
The Fallout: Public Humiliation in Full Swing
Collateral Damage
That pool was not for show. It was full of serious swimmers—people who trained, not posed. And now they were being bombarded by an airborne stereo system.
Trapped and Mortified
Meanwhile, I had landed in the most awkward position imaginable: my backside wedged between the treadmill and the railing, the belt still moving beneath me. The noise alone was enough to stop conversations around the gym. I tried to untangle myself, all while burning with humiliation.
Oh Look—The Cute Rescue Team
And then came the rescue party—several rather gorgeous gym instructors who had witnessed the entire drama unfold. Because OF COURSE they had.
Bonus Humiliation: An Angry Swimmer
As I tried to pretend I wasn’t dying inside, one of the swimmers stormed up the stairs to berate me after almost being knocked unconscious by a flying walkman. Another returned the now very sodden device, having retrieved it from the bottom of the pool.
The Aftermath
New Workout Schedule, New Life Choices
Needless to say, I never went to the gym after work again. From that day on, I only showed my face at 6:00 AM—different staff, fewer people, and no eyewitnesses to my mortification.
RIP Walkman. I Survived.
As for the walkman? It never recovered. But I did… eventually.
Moral of the Story?
If you’re still using a device the size of a boombox while trying to look cool on a treadmill… maybe just embrace the silence. And always secure your electronics—or risk turning your gym session into a comedy feature for someone else’s belly laugh of the day.
One of my previous posts was about another angelic encounter that helped me in a dire situation. This is another account of what can only be described as angelic intervention.
Stranded on the Highway With a Broken Fuel Gauge and a Barefoot Stranger
Buying my first car felt like winning a mini lottery—okay, more like finding a crumpled R50 note in your jeans. It was secondhand, scratched, and smelled vaguely like old sandwiches, but it was mine. No more relying on my boyfriend for rides like I was his clingy little co-pilot. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted. Independence never looked so… slightly dented.
The dream, however, came with one tiny, catastrophic flaw: the petrol gauge didn’t work.
Since I couldn’t afford to fix it (or really fix anything), I adopted the “human calculator” approach. I tracked my mileage like my life depended on it—because, apparently, it did. I’d drive until I thought it was time to refuel, then top up just before things got dicey. It wasn’t ideal, but hey, it worked.
Until it didn’t.
Enter: A Wednesday Night Disaster
It started with dinner at my boyfriend’s mom’s house—classic midweek visit that began fashionably late because he just had to hit the gym after work. I left around 10 p.m., cruising onto Joburg’s shiny new “concrete highway,” which, back in the 90s, was still novel and exciting. Fast lanes. Fewer robots. What could go wrong?
As I headed uphill, the car gave a little judder. Then another. And then it started coughing like it had swallowed a spoon. My stomach dropped. I had forgotten to check the mileage.
I was out of petrol.
I somehow managed to steer into the emergency lane, pulling off like a Formula 1 driver who just realized they were out of fuel—and also had no pit crew. The engine died. The lights dimmed. And just like that, I was alone. On the side of one of Joburg’s most notorious roads. At night.
This particular stretch had a reputation: carjackings, assaults, fake “help” lures that ended in horror. I knew the stories. Everyone did. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it over the passing traffic.
Fight, Flight, or… Wave Pathetically?
I had three options, none good:
Stay in the car and hope no one bothered me. (Unlikely.)
Walk home. (Alone. In the dark. Nope.)
Flag someone down and pray they weren’t a serial killer.
I chose option 3, mostly because it didn’t involve movement. I got out and stood next to my car, arms folded like I was waiting for a taxi that would never come. Cars flew past, their headlights slicing through the night, not even slowing down. Twenty minutes went by. Nothing.
Eventually, I raised my arms and started waving like one of those inflatable things outside a used car dealership. Another 15 minutes. Still nothing. My arms went limp. I was tired, scared, and dangerously close to tears.
So I did what any desperate 90s Joburg girl might do in that moment: I whispered a prayer.
“Please, God. Help me.”
To be honest, I wasn’t even sure He was still taking my calls. But before I could spiral further into self-doubt, something happened.
A white VW Jetta pulled up.
The Barefoot Miracle
A young man stepped out, dressed entirely in white—shorts and a shirt—and, bizarrely, no shoes. He looked calm, relaxed, like a guy who mistook a highway emergency for a beach stroll.
“Are you alright? Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes! Please!” I blurted, explaining my fuel faux pas. Midway through my rambling confession, I realized I had no money on me. None. Not even a crumpled R2.
He frowned a little. “Oh dear,” he said, like we’d just run out of biscuits at teatime. “I don’t have money on me either.”
Then he casually walked to his car, dug into the ashtray, and emerged with a handful of copper coins. Maybe enough to buy half a loaf of bread—on special. “Let’s see what we can do,” he said. “I’ll take you to the petrol station.”
I got into his car without hesitation. Normally, my self-preservation instincts would’ve kicked in. But in that moment, I felt totally safe. He was shorter than me, which for some strange reason reassured me. No weird vibes. No ulterior motives. Just… calm.
Faith, Fumes, and a Jerry Can
At the petrol station, the attendants scrambled to find a container small enough to justify the pocket change. Eventually, we filled up with whatever fuel we could afford and headed back.
On the drive, we talked. Not small talk—real talk. He asked about my life. I found myself opening up to him, like he was an old friend I just hadn’t met yet.
When we got back to my car, we poured in the fuel. I turned the key, hoping for a miracle.
Nothing.
The car didn’t even cough.
I felt my whole body sag. But he wasn’t fazed.
“Alright,” he said gently, “let me take you home. You can sort it all out in the morning.”
Grace in a White Jetta
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even think about the fact that I was letting a barefoot stranger drive me home in the middle of the night. That’s how safe he made me feel.
On the way, I nervously joked about my car being stolen or stripped. He just smiled. “It won’t be,” he said, like he knew something I didn’t.
He dropped me off, wished me well, and drove off into the night. No numbers exchanged. No dramatic farewell. Just gone.
Looking Back
It took me a while to process what happened that night. But the more I reflect, the more I believe that man wasn’t just some helpful stranger. The odds of a barefoot guy in white pulling over, having just enough coins, and making me feel totally safe?
That’s not luck.
That’s grace.
In a city as wild and unpredictable as Johannesburg, on a night that could’ve gone horribly wrong, I was protected. Delivered. Helped by someone who showed up out of nowhere, with nothing, and gave me everything I needed in that moment.
“For He will command His angels in regard to you, to protect and defend and guard you in all your ways.” – Psalm 91:11
Tales from the Tangled Trail 