*Some names have been changed to protect the mortified…and the innocent*
Friday night, I was out with Sam and our neighbor Jenny. The three of us began spewing out funny and awkward anecdotes that made me twinkle. I feel the need to use the word twinkle even though at first glance, it looks like I wrote tinkled. I did not tinkle over anecdotes. It was a reminiscent twinkle.
Anyways, I’ve decided to share a rather embarrassing story about myself. It was a time that I’m not completely proud of, but it’s a funny story to eventually tell my grandkids one day so that they know Nana Jessie didn’t just sit around lifeless while in her twenties.
Setting: London. 2011.
Sam and I were studying abroad with some fellow Americans. Some of the students were from California, New Jersey, Missouri, you name it.
We met a fellow New Hampshirite named Sarah, along with two friends from Missouri, Molly and Ava. We loved hanging out with Molly and Ava, but there was a slight problem. They had a friend from Missouri named Carrie that we honestly could not stand. When I say that this girl was a horrible human being, I’m not trying to sound dramatic. This girl was wretched. She boasted that she slept with like, twenty men the first three weeks abroad. Cool. She had an attitude that flipped like a light switch. When out in the city, we asked Carrie to take a picture of us in front of the Tower Bridge. She grunted, took the photo, without the effing Tower Bridge. It was weird.
I have never met anyone like her. She was rude the moment I met her. But, Sam and I knew that we had to tolerate her.
Flash forward a little bit, and we decided to go out for the night to meet friends at an American Sports Bar. Don’t judge. I realize we were in a foreign city and naturally we scope out the American bar, but everyone in our program went to it at least once a week. Before I left the campus, I found Molly in the hallway skyping with her mom. She looked upset so I went to talk to her. She handed me a three page list that Carrie supposedly wrote up titled “All The Things You Need To Change About Yourself.”
Yes. You read that right. A twenty-year-old girl had the time to sit down and write a three page list for SOMEONE ELSE about why they suck as a person. My blood was boiling. The thought came to me that people like her actually exist. They are real. They don’t just pop up in Chick Lit novels and teenage movies. These bitches are real. I was shaking so bad because my body was heaving out insult after insult in my mind about why this Carrie chick needed to burn in hell. Naturally, Molly wasn’t in the mood to go out anywhere, so I left her alone to her thoughts.
I get to the bar and see Ava, and to my joy, Carrie. I did my best to act cool and collected, like a lady. I didn’t blatantly ignore her like a fourth grader, but my responses were short and direct toward her. Ava asked about Molly and I just said that she decided to stay in. Carrie rolled her eyes and yelled, “I knew it. I knew she couldn’t handle being abroad.”
I suddenly turned into a volcano. I hadn’t even had a sip of alcohol yet, so to my surprise, I glared into her eyes and told her off. I won’t lay down the logistics of what I said, but it wasn’t pretty…or ladylike. Naturally she scoffed and walked away, and boy, did I feel liberated. Weeks of bottling up inside and I just exploded word vomit all over that girl’s face. Sam decided now was the time he needed a beer after what I just said. He leaves me by a table and suddenly Carrie is stomping towards me like she’s playing a football game. She’s knocking guys over with her rage, spilling drinks, and charging right towards me. She clocked me in the face. She pulled me hair like any girl does during a fight. I threw a punch back where I supposedly made her nose bleed. And then she was kicked out.
I’m sure all of you picture what it would be like to get into a fistfight. In your mind, you’re throwing punches left and right, performing karate chops like you’re Hilary Swank. It NEVER happens like that. Let me tell you that her bloody nose due to my fist was victory, until I found myself in the bathroom hyperventilating.
Tears were streaming down my tomato face. All the girls ran into the bathroom yelling, “Oh my god! I just saw what happened. Are you okay?” And then I felt embarrassed. I had to pull myself together and not look like such a chump. I didn’t realize that everyone in our program saw it all go down. And now I was labeled “That Girl Who Got Into a Bar Fight.”
Me. The girl who hates confrontation and conflict, got into a bar fight. I knew Carrie was a bit unhinged, but not to that extent. Good to know. It wasn’t so much that I did it for Molly and her unfiltered list stating she needed to work out more and change her hairstyle. I think it was the fact that I dealt with plenty of Carrie’s throughout middle school, and then having to deal with her into my twenties, I kind of blew up. There was no way Carrie was going to ruin my semester abroad.
I suddenly had an arch nemesis for the rest of the semester.
Flash forward two weeks. Sarah happily wakes up one morning and runs to the ladies room to wash up. To her surprise, there was poop all over the walls. It was smeared all over the stalls, toilets, showers, etc. It was like someone pranced around merrily in their own feces. This was Sarah’s reaction:
I know what you’re thinking. No – I did not poop all over the bathroom. I didn’t even live on that floor. But do you know who did? You guessed it! Carrie! Of course, Sarah had no idea who did such a thing, and she ran back to her room totally disgusted and changed her mind about that shower. Sarah somehow heard through the grapevine that Carrie’s roommate had to sleep next door because Carrie came back that night, and her roommate said she smelled absolutely terrible. Like poop. She smelled so bad, she couldn’t even sleep in there anymore and she had no idea why.
Sarah’s reaction now:
It clicked for her. Carrie created poop art in the girls bathroom. Sarah obviously wasn’t the only one who noticed the poop covered bathroom. Word got around, and soon, everyone knew what Carrie had done.
Victory was mine. AGAIN.
And the best part was that I didn’t have to do anything. She did it all on her own.
The point of my story is this: fist fights are not at all cool. They are terrible actually. Secondly, if you’re patient, karma really does exist. Even if you don’t witness it, just know, it will happen.
*I was a bit hesitant to write this comical story because I’m not here to embarrass anyone, hence why I changed everyone’s names. Plus, this blog is not exactly the top WordPress blog so the likelihood that hundreds of people read this story is very slim. And this is a life lesson of mine – you are not Hilary Swank.*