It’s fantastically ironic how forgettable an “unforgettable” night can be. I’ve dragged my dignity through student life by using my life motto as a defence for any misguided or borderline inappropriate behaviour: “If you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen”.
Although this may stand true after being picked up off the Tin Roof floor and lunged by a female with the build of Serena Williams, or attempting to run to Claremont on the M3 from a 21st in Constantia, there are times that you have to accept that the previous night actually did happen.
One of these nights occurred last year in March; early on in the year when having a 21st every Friday and Saturday night is still a novelty. You can gauge just how big your night is going to be by the inappropriateness of your attire. At this 21st at the Tennis Club, the theme was WWE Gladiators. I squeezed into a luminous green, age-7 leotard. Unfortunately, such was the testicular discomfort the previous time I’d worn it, I had cut the leotard at the crotch, leaving me with a tight fitting ‘beater barely reaching my belly button to accompany my rugby shorts. My recollection of the 21st sadly faded away soon after a few too many down-downs of the strong yet subtle punch.
One of the most interesting things about a big night out is spending the following few days piecing back the blurry puzzle that lead to you waking up in bed, on the bathroom floor, at a ‘friend’s’ house, on an unknown patio couch or maybe even in Zoology 1 Lecture Theatre, as was the case on this occasion.
A tap on the shoulder woke me up from a somewhat familiar sleeping position: head atop folded arms while sitting at a desk. Familiar because that is the exact position that I spent most of my 9 o’clock Accounts lectures in. What made the situation a bit surreal, and far too complex for my still-intoxicated mind to grasp hold of, was that I was in the same venue that my Accounts lecture actually took place. The late-twenties male that brought me back to consciousness told me matter-of-factly that I was in the wrong place while his disturbed-looking female companion looked on from a safe distance. Once I had gathered my bearings I was almost as surprised to figure out that I was in a lecture theatre as I was to realise that my shorts and shoes were nowhere to be seen.
I raced out of the lecture theatre to avoid the judging eyes before assessing my situation. I was marooned on campus wearing Y-front jocks and a tiny leotard. On top of this, I was without my I.D., home keys and wallet. Fortunately it was early on a Saturday morning meaning most people would be curled up in bed unconsciously dreading the oncoming hangover. Also to my advantage was the fact that I lived nearby and still had a fair amount of Dutch courage left from the previous night’s consumption to counter the embarrassment.
The walk down Woolsack drive was definitely not your typical 6am stroll. Drivers by hooted at the sight I presented, whether they were disgusted, amused or sympathetic I will never know. Nearing home, I ripped a placard off a street pole, not to cover my snow white upper thighs, but as a souvenir of an interesting and rather unique morning. The poster was advertising an Athol Fugard play, aptly named ‘Coming Home’.
