My childhood lust
For the first time in years, I'm as excited as a bride before her wedding. Look, attending weddings in their currently gargantuan regularity, is better than a wet slap to the face. And, frankly, if you've nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon, then why not scoff at two nauseatingly happy people dressed in pastels, who cut cake and shapes together through the medium of the electric slide with their elderly relatives?
So, I'm attending a matrimonial bash this weekend, and yes, I'll even do my roots for the occasion.
Contextually, the wedding is neither here nor there. I am overly excited for very selfish reasons; I am the first to admit.
Even going so far as to consider one of those tacky spray-on tans that look so natural the guests will think I've spent the latter half of the year sunning myself in Barbados.
I'm counting the days to Saturday because I am being reunited with my childhood sweetheart.
It's been around 150 years since I last saw the male who has made fleeting cameos in the more erotic dreams I've had. In fact, I'm pretty certain the last tangible glimpse I caught of him was while watching him on the rugby field back in Standard four as I ate a peanut butter sandwich.
He didn't know that I was alive.
Unrequited lust
Which means 'childhood sweetheart' is indeed a loaded term — it was more an 'unrequited lust' which I could do nothing about, as I was impossibly and painfully shy around the bloke.
Once we spoke in the tuck shop queue. He turned around and asked me what I was planning to buy with my R2. Instead of replying, "a hotdog, a Bar One and 8000 Chappies," I looked down, felt my face explosively ignite and giggled. That was meant to be my moment, whereby he'd then whisper into my ear: "Lucy, can I show you the inside of my tree house?"
Instead, because he was a popular sort of guy, his legions of adoring female fans stepped in, and once there was even a catfight on the edge of the hockey field at break time, with him looking on with a bemused expression on his face.
That was fifteen years ago. When I wore coloured elastics on my braces, and couldn't contemplate even attempting to utter mere cordialities to a good-looking man. And now, like a gift borne to the wind, he is arriving at a pew near me.
Cripes, he must have hair on his legs these days. In healthy, sexy amounts of course.
Make no mistake; I luckily now have no problems talking to a male with whom I'd like to procreate. But that's from years of experience, and because I have incorporated Dutch courage.
I didn't know what alcohol was when I undressed this human with my eyes in primary school. Now with help of my friend French Champagne, its sidekick, 'The Most Beautiful Dress Ever To Graced Sandton City', and a now unwavering confidence from exhaustive boardroom presentations to CEOs' of large JSE-listed companies, I think I'm set to knock his underpants off the moment I enter that church.
A risk worth taking
But this, again, is neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is — I have an excuse to look and feel radiant, whether he even decides to include me in his peripheral vision or not.
I have an excuse to bust out my Dead Sea exfoliating mud, and swap my Louisiana Longboat deep-fried chicken wraps for salads this week, instead.
I never thought I'd see this man again, and for all I know he may be sporting a bunion on his face or have an imposing gluten allergy that somehow affects his testicles.
Maybe he wears Crocs.
It's a risk I'm willing to take, and it makes quite a difference to my pre-outing regimen. I mean, it's going to take me a week to get ready for this, not a half hour.
Perhaps he won't recognise me, now that he can see my teeth.
Maybe I'll revert back to the coy 12-year-old I once was, and my voice box will give in when I attempt to greet him. Maybe I'll punch him lightly on the shoulder and proclaim, "Gary! Hi! It is Gary isn't it?" and he'll think I'm amazing immediately and I'll live happily ever after with a bunion-less man.
Or, at the very least, it'll be a fun party.
Article By: Lucy Hunt/iafrica.com