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.
It was my friend Anne-Marie’s bridal shower, and I was officially on duty. She had called me earlier in the week with a rather desperate plea—please look after her at the shower. Now, this wasn’t your average “don’t let me spill wine on my dress” kind of request. No, Anne-Marie was about to enter the lion’s den.
She was marrying Richard, a lawyer in the shipping industry, much like herself. As an English barrister dealing with high-stakes shipping insurance, her stress levels were through the roof. In fact, both she and Richard had taken to calming drugs just to survive their relentless workloads. Add to that the monumental task of planning a wedding, and you had one very tightly wound bride-to-be.
Now, Richard’s family? Oh, they were ex-Rhodesians (from what was now Zimbabwe), and if I’d learned anything, it was this—these country folk could drink. And I don’t mean a casual “let’s sip some champagne” kind of drinking. No, they drank like it was an Olympic sport and they were going for gold.
To make matters even more interesting, Richard was a very large man. We’re talking “could probably bench press a small car” levels of big. Anne-Marie, on the other hand, was tiny. The contrast between them was both adorable and slightly comedic. But the real danger that night? Richard’s three sisters, who were hell-bent on making sure Anne-Marie was as slaughtered as humanly possible.
I had a bad feeling about this…
The evening began at a charming Italian restaurant in Durban’s social hotspot, Florida Road. It was a delightful night filled with laughter, conversation, watching Anne-Marie open gifts, and indulging in delicious Italian cuisine.
After dessert, I could sense the sisters were gearing up to take the evening to the next level. They started ordering shooters, enthusiastically insisting that Anne-Marie join in. She shot me a desperate look—a silent plea for an escape plan.
Thinking quickly, I loudly suggested we move the party to a nearby club where we could dance and drink at the same time. The group loved the idea, and we all agreed to meet at the entrance. My real plan, however, was to get Anne-Marie inside the club and steer her straight toward the exit—a strategy I executed flawlessly.
On the drive home, I had to pull over several times to let Anne-Marie recover from the effects of the alcohol she’d already had too much of. By the time we got back, we wasted no time changing into our pajamas and putting the kettle on for some much-needed coffee.
Just as we settled into the lounge with our steaming mugs, we noticed headlights in the driveway. Anne-Marie squinted at them, confused—until recognition dawned on her face. It was her soon-to-be brother-in-law, Richard’s best man.
The plan for the night was for Richard’s stag party to be held on the same evening as Anne-Marie’s bridal shower. Since heavy drinking was expected, Richard had arranged to stay at his brother-in-law’s place, as driving all the way to Umdloti Beach would be out of the question.
That’s why Anne-Marie was surprised to see his car in the driveway. Worried that something had happened, she rushed outside. As she reached the car, Richard’s brother-in-law stumbled out, swaying and slurring his words. “All Richard wanted was to come home,” he mumbled. We were too confused and shaken to even process how this man, in such a state of inebriation, had managed to survive the drive back to Umdloti Beach. The thought hit us only later—how easily he could have killed himself, or worse, taken the lives of innocent strangers on that winding coastal road.
Anne-Marie peered into the backseat and found Richard lying there, completely unresponsive. She opened the door and gently told him he was home and could get out now, but he didn’t move. Eventually, his brother-in-law had to climb into the car, grab him by the arms, and drag him out. Given Richard’s size, this was no easy feat, but after some effort, he stirred just enough to steady himself against the car.
Even in the dim light from the house, it was obvious—Richard was the drunkest man I had ever seen, and I had seen plenty! As the only sober person there, I suggested we get him to a bathroom to see if he would vomit. I had heard stories of people choking on their own vomit in their sleep, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.
With his arms draped over our shoulders, we half-carried, half-dragged him to the bathroom. He collapsed next to the toilet, rested his head on the seat, and shut his eyes as if ready to pass out again. That’s when I wondered—how exactly do you make a drunk man vomit? There was no way I was sticking my fingers down his throat.
We tried to keep him awake, hoping he would throw up on his own, but it quickly became clear that this was a losing battle. I then suggested we move him to bed—but on his stomach—so that if he did vomit, he wouldn’t choke.
Getting him off the bathroom floor was yet another ordeal, but eventually, we managed to lift him up and walk him a few unsteady steps to the bed. The moment we let go, he collapsed face-down, sprawled diagonally across the mattress. At least this way, I thought, if he did throw up, he wouldn’t ruin Anne-Marie’s entire bed.
We left him there and went back to the lounge, making a cup of coffee for his brother-in-law while we chatted, waiting for him to sober up enough to drive home. As we watched his tail lights disappear down the road, a sudden, thunderous crash shattered the silence. It came from the bedroom.
Heart pounding, we ran inside to find Richard sprawled on the floor, wedged between the bed and the large wooden side table he and Anne-Marie had bought in Bali and shipped home. We rushed to lift him, trying to rouse him, but this time, he wouldn’t wake up. If he had passed out again, there was no way we’d be able to get him back onto the bed.
We managed to shift him just enough so that his head rested against the wall, slightly elevated. In my mind, this was better than having him lie flat—at least if he vomited, he wouldn’t choke. It was a stiflingly hot evening, but Anne-Marie insisted on draping a light duvet over him. Then, exhausted and uneasy, she suggested we share the guest bed and let Richard sleep it off.
Neither of us slept well. I had a nightmare about a funeral and woke up at dawn, drenched in sweat. Anne-Marie was already awake, clutching her head, groggy from a hangover. She suggested we get up and make some tea. As I boiled the water, I suggested she take a glass of water to Richard. She agreed it was a good idea.
I listened as she walked into the bedroom, coaxing him awake. Moments later, just as I was about to pour the tea, she returned. Her face was pale.
“Something’s wrong with Richard,” she said, her voice unsteady. “He won’t wake up.”
Dread coiled in my stomach as I followed her to the bedroom. The moment I saw him, a wave of nausea hit me. The sight was horrifying—Richard was so lifeless, so still, that all the blood had drained to the lower half of his elevated face. The top half of his skin was an ashen gray, while the lower half was stained with dark, blood-red blotches.
I must have gasped, because Anne-Marie immediately panicked. She grabbed Richard’s body, shaking him violently. “Wake up! Wake up!” she screamed.
“Call an ambulance!” she shrieked, her voice raw with desperation.
We didn’t have 911 in South Africa, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the emergency number. My mind was spinning, my hands trembling. I could hear Anne-Marie sobbing, pleading with Richard’s lifeless body.
Panic swallowed me whole. I had never seen a dead body before, let alone someone I cared about. I needed to escape. I bolted for the door, fumbled with the lock, and wrenched it open. I ran through the garden, reaching for the gate, desperate to get away from the nightmare unfolding inside.
Then I heard Anne-Marie’s screams—raw, guttural wails that sent a fresh wave of terror through me. I turned and ran back into the house.
By the time I reached her, she was on the phone, shouting at the emergency operator. “He’s not breathing!” she cried. I realized she was in complete denial, frantically trying to save a man who was already gone.
The operator instructed her to check if something was lodged in his throat. With a wild desperation, she straddled his chest, clawing at his rigor-mortised lips, trying to pry them open. “I can’t!” she sobbed. “His mouth won’t open!”
The operator gave another command: “Lift his legs.”
Anne-Marie scrambled off him and turned to me, her eyes wild with urgency. “Lift his legs!” she ordered.
I hesitated. I wanted to scream at her, to make her see reason. But she was beyond logic. Her grief was madness, and I was powerless against it.
“LIFT HIS LEGS!” she screamed.
Shaking, I grabbed Richard’s ankles and lifted. His body moved like a stiff ironing board—rigid, unyielding, lifeless. Anne-Marie hurried to the suitcase she had been packing for their honeymoon—just a week away—and shoved it beneath his feet. Then she climbed back on top of him, still desperately trying to pry his mouth open.
Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed into the phone. “I still can’t see anything! He won’t breathe!”
That’s when I snapped.
“HE’S DEAD!!!” I screamed, my voice breaking under the weight of reality.
Anne-Marie collapsed into wails, her body shaking with grief. I yanked the phone from her trembling hands and told the operator, “Her fiancé is dead. I’m sure of it.”
The voice on the other end was calm, gentle. “An ambulance and the police are on their way. Please stay on the line.”
Then there was a knock at the door. For a brief moment, I thought it was the emergency responders—but it was the neighbor, drawn by the screams. His face fell when I told him the news. He went into the bedroom, gently pulled Anne-Marie off the corpse of the man she loved, and led her to the lounge.
I followed, gripping the phone like a lifeline, thankful for any excuse not to go back into that room.
The whole time, one thought gnawed at me—this was my fault. My worst fear had come true. Richard had drowned in his own vomit, and I had failed to save him.
And that’s how I stayed for the better part of the day—frozen on the couch, gripping Anne-Marie’s hand as though letting go might make it all more real.
The neighbor took charge, asking for the numbers of Richard’s family. I listened numbly as he made the calls, his voice hushed but steady, breaking the worst news anyone could deliver.
We sat in a daze until the first car pulled into the driveway. The moment Anne-Marie saw them, she tore from the house, wailing with such raw grief that I thought my heart might shatter. This was surreal—like watching a nightmare play out while trapped inside it.
Richard’s sisters and their husbands hurried past me, eyes glazed with shock, and went straight to the bedroom where he lay lifeless on the floor. They took Anne-Marie with them, and the sounds that followed—deep, animal sobs, choked gasps, desperate whispers of his name—were almost too much to bear.
Eventually, they came out, pale and trembling, ready to whisk Anne-Marie away. But the police had arrived, and she had to give her statement before she could leave.
I was asked to stay behind, to recount what had happened to the emergency workers and later to the police. Reliving that horror, again and again, felt like some twisted form of punishment. Dark thoughts clawed at me: Was this my fault? Should I have done more to keep him from choking? Would they blame me? Prosecute me?
After Anne-Marie had sobbed out her broken, stumbling account of the night, Richard’s family insisted on taking her home. She needed clothes—we were both still in our pajamas. One of his sisters turned to me, her face red and swollen, and asked if I could get some clothes from Anne-Marie’s cupboard.
I wanted to scream, to run out of that house and never look back. The idea of stepping back into that room—where the weight of death lingered, suffocating—made my skin crawl. But I couldn’t refuse. So, with my heart pounding in my ears, I forced myself down the hall.
I kept my eyes locked on the cupboard, refusing to glance at the bed or the cold, still body beside it. The suitcase she’d used to prop up his feet was lying near the open wardrobe. I dragged it over and swept handfuls of clothes inside—anything I could reach—then dug for some underwear with shaking hands.
I backed out of the room as quickly as I could, gripping the suitcase like a lifeline. The atmosphere in there was indescribable, as if the very walls had soaked in death and despair.
When I stepped into the lounge again, Anne-Marie was clutching Richard’s sister, her sobs quieter but no less heartbreaking. I handed over the suitcase and stood there, hollow, not knowing where to look or what to feel—only that I would never forget the way that room had felt, thick with the memory of a life suddenly and brutally cut short.
By around 3 p.m., I was finally told I could leave. The house still swarmed with police, as if it had become a crime scene. In many ways, it had.
I threw on the clothes from the night before, eager to escape the suffocating weight of tragedy, and slipped out as quickly as I could. The drive home was a blur, my mind heavy with the grief of my poor friend, who had just lost the love of her life. A deep, aching loneliness settled over me. I felt broken.
Several weeks after the funeral—held on what should have been Richard and Anne-Marie’s wedding day—I received a call from their next-door neighbor, who, by an odd coincidence, was also a doctor. That Saturday morning, I had confessed to him my deepest fear: that Richard had died because of me, that I had failed him while he drowned in his own vomit. Now, he was calling to share the coroner’s report. Richard had suffered an enormous coronary, one so catastrophic that not even seven heart surgeons working together could have saved him. The combination of alcohol and antidepressants had triggered it.
Hearing this brought a strange relief—I hadn’t failed him; there had been nothing I could have done. But that relief was quickly overshadowed by a chilling realization: when he fell off the bed, it wasn’t just a collapse—it was a testament to the sheer force of the coronary, strong enough to lift a comatose man who had been lying diagonally across the mattress and hurl him to the floor. Every desperate effort I had made to lift him, to keep him upright, had been an attempt to move a body already claimed by death. The weight of that thought, of having tried in vain to save a life that could not be saved, sank into me like a stone.
That night etched into me a truth I could never shake: alcohol and stress are a deadly partnership. Richard’s death was not only about how much he drank; it was about the weight he had been carrying long before the first glass was poured. Both he and Anne-Marie were professionals stretched so thin by their careers that they lived on calming medication just to keep going. Their wedding, which should have been a joy, had become one more layer of expectation pressing them down. In that state, alcohol was not harmless fun—it was fuel on an already raging fire.
I had always thought of drinking as a way to let off steam, to loosen up when life felt too tight. But what I saw that night forced me to confront a darker reality: when stress has already weakened the body and frayed the mind, alcohol does not relax—it destabilizes. It numbs awareness, dulls instinct, and steals the body’s last line of defense. Richard wasn’t the first person to use alcohol as an escape, but he was the first in my world whose escape became permanent.
It left me with a lingering question I carried for years: how many of us live in the same cycle—too stressed to cope, too desperate not to find some way out—and how close are we, without even knowing it, to the same edge? Stress will always demand an outlet. The world offers alcohol, pills, distractions, and busyness, but they are only shadows of relief. They cover pain for a moment, but they never heal it.
What I’ve since learned is that there is a healthier outlet, one that doesn’t mask or destroy but restores. It is a life anchored in Jesus Christ. In Him, the pressure of this world does not crush, and the weight of stress finds release. Where alcohol numbs for a night, His presence gives peace that endures. Where the world offers escape, He offers rest. Richard’s story became a sobering reminder to me that the only true refuge from stress isn’t found in a bottle, but in the arms of the One who promised, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
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.
Duncan had gotten dressed and said he’d meet me down at the hotel’s fancy restaurant. Now, ordinarily, I’d be thrilled—because I love food. Especially good food. But this time? I took my sweet time getting ready. Not because I wanted to impress Duncan, but because I was still fuming over the “oops, only one suite left” situation.
I wasn’t exactly leaping at the chance to head downstairs. Something in my gut told me this evening was going to be weird—and not the fun, spontaneous kind of weird. More like the “I’m about to be emotionally ambushed” kind. If I could’ve buried my head in the minibar like an ostrich and pretended none of this was happening, I would’ve.
But instead, I took my time getting dressed—part stalling tactic, part emotional armor. I wasn’t going to waltz in all sunshine and sparkles like I hadn’t just been wedged into a suite-sharing situation I never signed up for. No way. I decided to go with a look I like to call disengaged but dazzling. Think: hostage chic, but with lip gloss.
By the time I floated into the restaurant, I was composed—at least on the outside. On the inside? Still rage-simmering with a hint of “how-do-I-escape-this-trip-with-my-sanity?”
We had just ordered our first course when I decided—against all better judgment—to have a glass of wine. Maybe it would help smooth over my mood. Maybe it would just help me sit through another night of Duncan talking about wood grain finishes.
But then—just as I took that first hesitant sip—he leaned in.
“I’ve really loved our time together,” he said, eyes soft and serious. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since you worked for me. This trip… was so I could finally tell you. I want to marry you.”
Cue internal collapse. My heart froze. My jaw didn’t drop (I have some dignity), but my stomach absolutely did a backflip.
Why was it always the men I had zero interest in who insisted on loving me with Olympic-level intensity?
Then—as if this couldn’t get worse—he pulled out a little black velvet box.
Oh, sweet mercy.
He didn’t even get down on one knee. Just handed it over. Like a contract. Or an unsolicited invoice for emotional damage.
Inside? A diamond. A very large, very sparkly, very innocent-looking diamond. Too bad it was giving me a full-body anxiety rash.
Panic!
I was speechless. Not in the happy, teary-eyed, “oh my word this is the best day of my life” kind of way. More like the stunned, wide-eyed, “I might faint into this bread roll” kind of way. And I could only pray Duncan wasn’t mistaking my silence for the romantic kind of overwhelmed.
His lips were still moving—definitely still talking. Something about love… forever… destiny, maybe? I honestly couldn’t tell. All I could focus on was the twinkling diamond glaring at me from inside its velvet cell like a sparkly little accomplice to this crime of confusion.
Then came the question: “Are you going to say something?”
Oh, Duncan. I wish I had.
To this day, I have no memory of my actual response. I think it was something weak and non-committal like, “Wow… I’m so honored you feel this way.” Which, let’s be real, is the international code for: “Absolutely not, but I’m too polite to say it yet.”
That’s when full-blown panic took over. I began listing every possible reason why I would make a terrible wife. Surely, surely, logic would win the day.
I was too emotionally unavailable. I didn’t know what I wanted in life. I still had commitment issues… with gym memberships, let alone marriage.
But Duncan? Unfazed.
He had a counter for every excuse I gave—calm, confident, relentless. It suddenly made perfect sense why he was such a successful lawyer. I was basically presenting Exhibit A for “This Is Not Going to Happen,” and he was expertly cross-examining it into oblivion.
Meanwhile, I was spiraling.
How on earth was I going to turn this down without nuking my future business prospects… and possibly a shot at international travel and financial salvation?
Then the food arrived.
But while Duncan tucked in with the joy of a man who’d just proposed and assumed it went well, I could barely chew. Every bite felt like it came with a side of anxiety. I washed it all down with more wine—hoping it might give me either the courage to be honest, or a nap I wouldn’t wake up from until we were back in Durban.
He, of course, misread my wine consumption as a celebration. Me? I was mourning my exit strategy.
Couch Couture and Midnight Madness
Eventually, sometime between the cheesecake and my third glass of liquid denial, Duncan asked the inevitable: “So… do you have an answer?”
Panic. I stalled. “I’ll need some time to think about it,” I said, in the most non-committal, conflict-avoiding tone I could manage.
A flicker of disappointment passed over his face—followed, interestingly, by what looked like relief. I hadn’t said yes (praise be), but I hadn’t said no either. Just… a diplomatic holding pattern. He could still hope, and I could still breathe.
But then came the real challenge: returning to the suite.
It was still too early to turn in, but Duncan announced cheerfully that he was calling it a night. “Oh, okay! Good night!” I chirped—maybe just a bit too brightly—as I made a dramatic beeline for the miniature couch like it was a perfectly reasonable sleeping arrangement and not a glorified footstool.
Now, let’s remember—this was the 1990s in South Africa. We didn’t have cable or streaming or anything remotely entertaining past 10 p.m. What we did have was SABC, our one sad little channel. On Saturday nights, the movie would end promptly at 10, followed by a string of solemn religious programming (think: pipe organs and softly spoken sermons), and then—if you were still awake—the grand finale: a test pattern and the national anthem. That was it. Entertainment closed for the night like a tuck shop on a public holiday.
Midnight hit. Exhaustion hit harder.
And that couch? It had all the comfort of a shoebox lined with regret.
I weighed my options. Cling to this glorified bench and wake up with spinal trauma? Or admit defeat and slide silently into the enormous king-sized bed?
I chose survival.
So, I layered every item of clothing in my suitcase like a human onion, crept across the room, and eased into the very far edge of the mattress—as in, one accidental roll and I’d be on the floor. Mission: do not touch Duncan.
I must’ve passed out instantly.
Because the next thing I knew, I was under attack.
Snore Wars : The Final Deterrent
I jolted awake to find Duncan looming over me, wielding a pillow like a weapon and hissing: “Carol! Will you STOP SNORING?!”
Apparently, the allergies I’d been ignoring all day had blossomed into a full-blown, symphonic, soul-shaking snore-fest. Duncan was livid.
Whether it was the noise, or the shock of seeing me lying there—bundled like a human burrito in every item of clothing I owned—it clearly spelled out what I hadn’t managed to say over dinner: this was never going to be a love story.
He stormed off without a word, stomped onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and glared at the horizon like it had personally offended him. Bare-chested. Sleep shorts. Smouldering with betrayal.
I did feel bad. Sort of. But mostly? Immensely relieved. I no longer needed a carefully crafted “it’s not you, it’s me” monologue. My nasal passages had done the heavy lifting. My snoring had spoken the unspoken.
Needless to say, the pot of gold I thought Duncan represented turned out to be an old rusted tin can with holes in the bottom.
The drive home? Painfully silent. So silent, you could hear my regret shifting awkwardly in the back seat.
What was I supposed to say? “Sorry my nasal passages betrayed you”?
And the more the kilometres rolled by, the more irritated I became. Had this whole “business venture” just been a romantic ruse? A bait-and-switch wrapped in handcrafted wooden bowls?
I hadn’t seen his kindness as anything but… well, kindness. And sure, maybe I’d laughed at his jokes or smiled politely over dinner—but that’s not a binding contract. It’s basic social grace.
By the time we pulled up to my car in Umkomaas, I couldn’t decide if I felt more guilty for not feeling guilty, or just mad that the whole awkward circus had even happened.
Either way, the fairy tale was over. Not with a glass slipper, but with a snort and a slam of a car door.
On Reflection….
I never heard from Duncan again.
And honestly, I didn’t expect to. He was a good man—kind, respectful, and genuine—and while I did miss him, I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. I didn’t want to give him false hope or rub salt into what was likely still a pretty raw wound.
The whole episode didn’t leave me feeling triumphant. Quite the opposite, actually. It chipped away at my already-fragile self-esteem. I’d hurt someone who didn’t deserve it—however unintentionally—and that truth stuck with me. What stung even more was the uncomfortable realization that I had been this close to a better future. Stability. Travel. A solid, kind-hearted man. But I let it all go… because, if I’m being brutally honest, he didn’t look like Brad Pitt. Turns out, I was that shallow.
The whole Duncan chapter became one of those cringe-worthy “what was I thinking” moments I often take to God in prayer. Thankfully, in His endless grace, He has led me into a spacious place—a life where He truly has turned all things for good (Romans 8:28). The shame, the regret, the bad choices? He’s repurposed it all.
And while I still have a suitcase full of questionable decisions and terrifying detours to share, I tell these stories not to glamorize the mess—but to hopefully make you laugh, and more importantly, to warn younger girls: Get healed. Get whole. Don’t waste years wandering down dead-end roads like I did.
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 