Tales from the Tangled Trail

Tag: life-lessons

  • My Accidental Escape from a Marriage Proposal – Episode 3

    The Dinner Before the Disaster

    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.

  • My Accidental Escape from a Marriage Proposal – Episode 1

    Champagne Problems and Secretarial Woes

    When your “plan” is to find a husband with a plan…

    Let’s start with the basics:
    After four years of being in a relationship with a man who made it crystal clear he’d never marry me—like, bold underline, all-caps, skywritten by a plane clear—I finally walked away. Heartbroken and with nowhere else to go, I dragged my tail back to Durban and back into my parents’ house. They never approved of him (they were right, of course), and they were also very religious… and I had spent the last few years living like someone actively trying to dodge both God and good decisions.

    To top it off, I’d quit my job that morning—sent a dramatic message to the attorneys saying I’d never be back. So there I was: unemployed, emotionally wrecked, and back under the roof of people who would’ve fainted if they knew even half of what I’d been up to in Joburg.

    Let’s just say returning home was humbling. Champagne lifestyle? Please. Durban didn’t even offer a bubbly on a budget version of the life I’d been living.

    I was broke. I was bitter. And I was working for my mother.

    Not exactly the opening line of a bestselling autobiography, but we’re being honest here.

    At this point in my life, my career goals could best be summed up as:
    “Marry someone with ambition so I don’t have to develop any.”

    it’s not that I was lazy—I just didn’t know what to do with myself.
    Well, besides chasing men with red flags and stabbing myself in the eye every morning trying to nail that darned winged eyeliner.
    (And still walking out the door looking like a raccoon with commitment issues.)

    By day, I was a secretary in my mom’s office, which was every bit as soul-sucking as it sounds.
    By night, I was on a romantic scavenger hunt for someone—anyone—to rescue me from myself.

    Spoiler: that person never showed up.
    (Unless you count that one guy who thought a packet of biltong was a suitable birthday gift. I do not.)

    My salary? Laughable.
    My expenses? Mostly overpriced cocktails and late night dinners with my girlfriends.
    Rent wasn’t a concern—I lived at home—but somehow, I was still financially gasping for air every month.

    You’d think partying four nights a week on a shoestring budget would slow me down, but oh no.
    I just became really, really good at eating crackers for dinner.

    Then came The Call.

    Dramatic pause. Cue hopeful violin music.

    Out of nowhere, I got a phone call from Duncan—an attorney I used to work for at a fancy law firm back in my more “respectable” days (read: before fleeing the city like a dumped contestant on The Bachelor).

    Duncan was a quiet, serious man, older than me, and very professional…and very short.
    Think legal version of a little Mr. Rogers – minus the cardigans…and the full head of hair.
    I’d always appreciated how kind he was, especially the night we both had to stay at work until 2 a.m. helping a millionaire matriarch rewrite her will out of pure spite.
    (She was leaving nothing to her family and everything to her cats. You think I’m kidding.)

    When I ghosted that job post-breakup meltdown, Duncan was the only one who called to say goodbye.
    No guilt. No passive aggression. Just kindness.

    So when he rang again—months later—I was genuinely happy to hear from him.

    We chatted. Caught up. Laughed a little.
    He said the firm missed me. I said something self-deprecating and charming, probably while sitting in my pajamas at 2 p.m. eating toast.

    Then the calls kept coming.
    Once a week.
    Then every other day.

    And then?

    Duncan had a business idea.

    Ladies and gentlemen, this is where our story really begins.

    🛎️ Coming Next: Episode 2: The Wooden Bowl Hustle and Hope in a Suitcase

    International dreams, backseat naps, and the hangover that nearly ruined everything.

    Subscribe so you don’t miss a moment of this wild tale, or drop a comment below:
    💬 Ever tried to find meaning at the bottom of a wine glass? Same.
    Let’s swap notes.

    💬 Note from the Author

    I want to pause and say—this isn’t a story I share with pride. Especially not the parts about my wild lifestyle or the choices that led me down a path I now see so clearly for what it was: a slow unraveling. I was chasing validation, fun, escape… but mostly, I was running—from God, from truth, and from myself.

    I tell this story not just to entertain (though yes, parts are laugh-out-loud ridiculous), but to offer a quiet warning wrapped in real-life mess. If you’re reading this and something inside you whispers, ‘this feels familiar‘, please know you’re not alone. You don’t have to figure it all out by yourself.

    If any of this hit close to home and you need someone to talk to—someone who’s walked that road and turned around—I’m here. I’d be honored to walk alongside you.

    See you in Episode 2!!