The Brown Monster

My Chicago triathlon is nine days away. During my last month of preparation, I should have been training diligently in all things swimming, biking and running. Instead, I’ve been gallivanting around the world. Every weekend a different party. Every night a different dress. Ha! If only that were so…

OK, it is partly so. Occasional law breaking and naked dive masters aside, Sweden was quite the experience. First of all, there weren’t many people who looked like me there. Of course, this was part of its appeal. I mean, it’s not like the South where I could be lynched for making eye contact with the wrong person. In Europe, being brown is like having a really cool accent. You can stick me in a city with thousands of blondes and I’ll be in heaven. It’s like going to a party where everyone’s wearing shorts and pants and I’m in a ridiculously short dress and five inch heels. Always. Appropriate.

There were a couple of things that did make me feel slightly out of place, though. Like the time the father of the bride, born and raised in Holland, called me “The Brown Monster.” At least the whole wedding party thought he did. As it turns out, he was actually referring to the oversized brown sofa I slept on in the couple’s living room.

Unfortunately, the thing that made me stand out most had nothing to do with my appearance. Instead, it was regarding the time I inadvertently threatened the life of the bridal party, the hotel guests, and some 600 year-old beloved architecture. Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s not like old buildings are that difficult to come by in Sweden.

I woke up early the morning of the wedding and went for an incredible run along the Oresund Sea (the body of water that connects Denmark to Sweden). Seriously, both Grosse Pointe and the back-country of Malmo could take some cues from this route. There were bathrooms at every kilometer. It was both a runner’s and an inebriated Canadian’s dream come true. The weather was perfect and the view unreal. With every stride I felt more at peace and more aware of my body, functioning as easily as it ever had. My 60-minute run turned into an 80-minute run. And then I realized I was late. Really late.

The bridal party was meeting at 10am to get our hair and make up done, so when I got back to the hotel room I was in a bit of a hurry. My roommate was gone. I had first dibs in the shower, which, thanks to the Navy, I can take faster than any man I know. Surprisingly, they never cared much about how my hair looked, so while we did have plenty of uniform drills, we never really had hair drills. I knew this was going to take a while. All week I had been wearing my hair naturally, which for me means a bunch of bouncy curls. I knew the stylist would have an anxiety attack if I showed up au naturel, so I did her a favor and began straightening it with my flat iron. I turned on my iPod and was jamming away to REM.

Out of no where, an alarm sounded throughout the hotel. Seriously? This is just my luck! I knew the bride would kill me if I was late for our appointment, so I kept trucking, trying to drown out the sound of the alarm with the sound of Automatic for the People.

A little while later my roommate came in. I asked her what all the hoopla was about. She said the hotel was being evacuated. The dining room, full of people eating breakfast and pre-wedding mingling, was shut down. Everyone was sent outside to stand on the street. Like me, however, she knew the importance of being ready on time and was willing to risk death by fire to sneak upstairs to get ready. But not before she ran into the bride’s sister, searching for her husband and baby amidst the chaos, terrified. It was pandemonium out there.

‘Oh my,’ I thought as I continued to style my hair. ‘That is really too bad. And poor V. Having to evacuate from her wedding suite on her wedding day. I wonder if she’s running out of the hotel carrying her wedding dress and veil. Maybe she needs help? Focus. Stay and finish your hair. Oh, damn! I should have gotten that mani-pedi before I left the States. That should be a customs requirement. Oh, right. Fire alarm. If it’s a real emergency they’ll come and get us.’

All of a sudden I hear commotion coming from the hallway. Shoot. This must be a big deal. They really are coming to get us! What am I going to do about my hair?

There was a bang on my door. I opened it to a panicked fire marshal shouting in Swedish pointing to my smoke detector. Damn it, what is it about these Swedish people yelling at me in Swedish? Is it that difficult to use Ingles in an emergencia? I mean, it’s not as if I started speaking Mexican during General Quarters on my ship, or if I will bust out in Spanish when I inevitably turn 30… someday.

So, after some miming and what I can only assume is the international sign for “You’re starting a fire in my hotel you crazy Panamanian,” I realized it was my flat iron that set off the detector. I know this because when I unplugged it and pointed the fan in that direction the alarm stopped sounding and the fire marshal stopped screaming. Oops. Arms go up in a shrug, palms face upwards, head tilts to the side. That’s the international sign for “My bad…”

Well, all’s well that ends well. That’s what I always say. The wedding dress was safe. Mother and child reunited. Bride and Groom overcome by wedding-day-bliss. And most importantly, I did get to finish straightening my hair at the salon. At which point I had the stylist put it back in curls. (Hey, the shape was different!) I won’t lie, people… my hair did look fantastic.

Nine days. In my world that is an eternity. My life drastically changes course every few hours. There’s no telling what kinds of tomfoolery can happen. Run-ins with the law; impromptu dance competitions; last minute weekend trips; rabid dog chases. Chicago, The Brown Monster is coming! I’m still amazed that I don’t have to register when I enter a new city.