viragette

Another blogger’s post, entitled “Did I mention: I’m an evil bitch?” got me thinking: Me too.

When I was a graduate student and the HB was a pre-med, we lived (IN SIN - stop reading now, you know who you are) in a little town. Kristi E. was his friend from before we met. And by “friend before we met”, I mean girl who so obviously had wanted and still did want to jump my boyfriend that everyone in town admitted this except for said boyfriend, the HB, who contended “but, she has a boyfriend!?” In private, this would be followed by the stare-off: the HB would offer a mystified look, while I alternated between trying not to giggle and trying not to roll my eyes INTO THE BACK OF MY HEAD. In public he would be teased mercilessly (thank you friends!). Let me just convey some of the bases for our skepticism. My boyfriend at the time, the HB, was a 6+ foot tall, gorgeous (my opinion), blond decathalete who had already been accepted to medical school. He was known by the nickname “The Greek God” by the women’s track team. I should have bronzed him when I had the chance. - BUT - he could not imagine that anyone would think him crushworthy.

Shee-it.

Anyway, occasionally Kristi would ask the HB out on a date. And by date, I mean ask him to coffee or some other such activity at a time when she knew I was busy. He never went to one of these dates, but I do remember our discussions about the invitations, which would run along the lines of the stare-off mentioned above.

Now, lest you are thinking at this point that I was being paranoid, intolerant or jealous, let me assure you that I have always been most polite to Ms. KE. The girl may have had bad judgment in girlfriends to cross, but I could not reasonably fault her taste in boyfriends to covet. I left these decisions up to the HB because I respected him, I expected him to do the right thing, and generally have no qualms about holding my own. And so, when he suggested that we invite Kristi over to a little gathering at our place, I happily agreed.

So, there we all were in typical little college town repose, around the table. Kristi started out the evening rather quietly. She would also get up from the table periodically to help the HB in any of his hosting duties in the kitchen. For those of you with an eye for comedy, “the kitchen” was an open area about 5 feet away from “the table” at which my girlfriends and I were sitting thinking “we can see you, bitch” and trying not to roll our eyes INTO THE BACK OF OUR HEADS. As the evening progressed, she loosened up - perhaps because of the heady delight of standing in close proximity to the HB or maybe because unbeknownst to us all Kristi was getting really, really drunk.

The first sign of this was when she announced loudly to the table-at-large: “I have no gag reflex!” Totally. out. of. context. I swear my drink came out my nose.

Also, that she did not follow the HB when he took me and a girlfriend into “the kitchen” to explain that this proclamation was a routine occurrence when Kristi got drunk, and that we needed to cut her off. We spent way too long in the kitchen - evidently the HB and his buddies had spent some time speculating on the meaning of this statement and had decided [typical guys] that, since Kristi had been with her same boyfriend since early in high school, this was more of a poor reflection on him than anything else. Anyway, while he was filling us in, Kristi was on a steep slope at the table. We plied her with water and gatorade, but were tragically too late. Everyone was talking when, totally out of context, Kristi’s head thumped loudly into the table top.

“Oh My God! Are You OK?!” Shrieked my girlfriend, who I then had to whack in the back of her head to get her eyeballs unstuck. Kristi raised her head, wiped the flecks of drool into the table top, and decided to stagger towards the bathroom. I got up to help her and in this moment, I’ll admit I am still impressed, she mustered every last reserve of her sobriety and waved me off, bravely facing the 10 steps unaided. You go girl!

With some judicious glaring we managed not to avoid a full table melt-down when the bathroom door locked behind her. Folks started to drift away and finally we told my girlfriend to let her boyfriend drive her home, we’d be fine.

Kristi was still in the bathroom.

I began knocking about 5 minutes later. No answer. Now I’m starting to really worry. In quiet conference, I asked the HB whether he had considered that she may have fallen and hurt herself. “No - we haven’t heard any noises.” I knocked again. “Kristi?” “Kristi? Are you OK?” Nothing.

At this point I full-on switched to present tense.

I get down on the floor and peak under the door crack. I see feet, with denim pooling around the ankles. She’s sitting on the throne. “OMG. I think she passed out on the toilet.” Now, in retrospect, this is hilarious. At the time, we both thought the same thing: she’s going to fall over and whack her head. I start pounding on the door and the HB starts saying, “we’ve got to get the door open and then you can go in there and help her!” (Great. Damn Ovaries.) After a hurried discussion at the door punctuated with cries of “Kristi! Kristi!” we decide the following: The HB will stand at the doorknob and I will stand facing him against the door to lean on it. We will break the door down and I’ll go in to help her while the HB waits outside to attempt to preserve some of her dignity. Mission goal - make sure she doesn’t whack her head. I then explain this in a loud voice to the unconscious girl on the other side of the door: “Kristi, we’re going to open the door and I’m coming in to help you.” Then we start trying to open the locked door.

We are college students, and so we rent, and so this is not a full-on door onslaught but more of a powerful jiggling of the doorknob accompanied by hefty leaning. It takes 3 or 4 minutes but finally the door pops open. The HB, his hand still on the doorknob, has to steady himself so as not to fall into the room, and so the door opens only about half way.

The tableaux that presented itself to us was burned into my retinas in the 2 seconds of frozen time and silence that followed. Kristi was indeed on the throne, her head resting on her knees and her arms dangling limply at her side. Her jeans were around her thighs, revealing a swath of pale skin from where her shirt ended to the waistband. She was drooling onto her knee.

In utter horror, we both jump back and the HB slams the door shut again. We look at each other mouths agape. Later that evening we would confess our frenzied thoughts in that moment.

I was thinking - “Oh yuck. Kristi looked so awful!

Good.”

And, for the record, I did feel bad about my delight that her fat rolls were presented in such an unflattering juxtaposition with the porcelain toilet.

The HB was thinking - “Shit! I saw her butt! Viragette is gonna be pissed!”

In the minute or so that we just stood there, dumbfounded, horrified but trying not to laugh - we heard noises. The toilet flushed. “Kristi? Are you OK?” “I’m OK, I’ll be right out.” The HB had to talk, as I still couldn’t: “Be careful OK, please don’t fall in there.” “I’m OK.” Eventually, we drove her home. Although she had classes with some of the people who were at the fateful gathering, she reportedly never made eye contact with any of them again.

But, as of this year, that girl still emails the HB (“But she’s married!?”).

Yeah, married with no gag reflex.