When I fell off the lifeguard tower at midnight, the paramedic whoâ€™d put me up there in the first place couldnâ€™t complain, really. Heâ€™d suggested the outing, and brought champagne, cheese, fruit and a blanket. Heâ€™d even remembered to provide a lovely starry night for ocean-gazing, boozing and necking. Not bad for a last minute Valentineâ€™s date, Iâ€™d thought when we made the arrangements. Something different from the usual restaurant outing. â€œSure, why not?â€ Iâ€™d said.
Why not? Well, I should have considered that it was winter in Southern California, which means all of the ladders for the lifeguard towers are gone. Therefore, the hot paramedic Iâ€™d met at a club had to boost me up onto the tower by pushing my big, round behind. Repeatedly.
Second, I have no head for champagne, my dears. And the hot paramedic had great taste in wine, so forgive me if I indulged a little more than usual. I indulged in more paramedic than Iâ€™d intended as well, so perhaps it was sudden caution that had me pulling back from a steamy kiss and launching ass over noggin into the cool, grainy sand. Face first.
Picture the hero or villain of this story, whichever you prefer, expertly flipping over the victim of a Valentine nightâ€™s foolishness. Then imagine a starfish with a face. A face full of sand. Yep, that was me. I coughed, spluttered, and wished Iâ€™d had the sense to stay home with a Hugh Jackman flick.
To my surprise, my date was still waiting for me when I returned from the ladies room. What a gentleman. Mr. Paramedic drove me and my crusty orifices home and then disappeared, never to call again. Heâ€™s probably still trying to get the sand out of his car.
At least Valentineâ€™s Day will come again next year, I told myself. Next year Iâ€™d make reservations.