The I-made-a-huge-regrettable-mistake diaries and advice on how not to be like me

diary entry 4- "The curse of the borrowed item". Do not lend me anything. Seriously.

I hate borrowing things. Something always goes wrong. It’s not as if I don’t try to look after whatever I borrowed, but something just always happens before I can return it.

There was that time I borrowed my dad’s new car. I bought tuna salad for lunch and put it on the back seat. “It’s going to mess,” said the wise little voice. “I know,” I said. Six months later my dad’s car still smells like the tuna that messed all over the seat. (Those old wives tales about toothpaste, etc for smell removal proved completely useless in case you were wondering about the merits of old wives tales in smell removal).

Then there was the time I borrowed my best friend’s favourite white shirt. “I love this shirt,” she said “I know,” I said, before mutilating it and having it end up on the roof. “Don’t wash it in the machine,” she said. “I won’t,” I said, before throwing it into the washing machine. Along with my dangerously bright orange hostel shirt.  After trying to bleach it back to its original “favourite-shirt-white” (which didn’t work in case you were wondering about the merits of bleach against orange stains on white shirts), I hung it out my window to dry. “It’s going to fall out,” said the wise little voice. “I know,” I said before walking away. An hour later, I was not all that surprised to look out my hostel window and see my friend’s “most favourite shirt” lying on the roof of the adjoining hostel.

This, however, was just the grand build up to the oh-so-grand disaster of disasters. I borrowed my step mom’s sunglasses and favourite black pants. “I love these pants,” she said. “I know,” I said. “You’re going to ruin it,” said the wise little voice. “I know,” I said before the mutilation of all mutilations. I used the sunglasses all week. Everything was going exceptionally disaster free and I was feeling deservingly chuffed with my carefulness. It was the day before I needed to return the shades. I was standing in front of my mirror, pretending to be quite the celebrity (yes, I know that 20 year olds should have outgrown this type of thing), wearing the sunglasses for the very last time when suddenly my Madonna impersonation was cut short and I was left staring at the loosened right lens lying in my hand. “Told you so,” said the wise little voice. “I know,” I said, not all that surprised.

Luckily, I had a tube of Superglue just waiting to fix one of my mess-ups and I quickly rushed to my bedroom to glue the incriminating lens back in. Now, on this day I learnt that one should never leave a tube of superglue open on one’s bed. To cut a long, tragic part of this story short, I sat down on the bed and got Superglue all over the pants I was wearing. The black pants I was wearing. Yes...you guessed it...  my step mom’s black pants. (You are probably shaking your head right now, saying aloud that I’m simply exaggerating the story for effect. Sadly, I am actually pathetic enough that I don’t even need to exaggerate this story. It is completely true.)

I once heard an Old wives tale that Mentholated Spirits is good for removing Superglue. Well, actually no, it really isn’t. What it really is good at removing, however, is the black colour of black pants. Oh, and generally the fabric itself. I need you to imagine me staring at the borrowed black pants, now with a hole on the bum part and four white blotches on various areas of the pants. “I told you so,” said the wise little voice. “I know,” I said, before rushing towards my next error of judgement.

Black dye: white blotches black again=awesome; white tiled bathroom floor now dyed black=not quite so awesome.  (Who knew clothing dye worked on tiles too?)

So let me catch you up to speed: glasses still broken, black pants with a hole in it, black bathroom floor. Oh, and Superglue finished. Off I go to my best friend’s house (Yes, the one whose shirt I mutilated and tossed out the window a few months earlier) to use their Superglue and receive some moral support and comfort in my time of crisis. We sit down at their expensive dining room table, armed with a new tube of Superglue and the stupid sunglasses. I mess glue on their expensive dining room table. I use nail polish remover to remove the Superglue. It removes the glue. And the shiny wax layer of their expensive dining room table. “You shouldn’t have done that,” says the damn wise little voice. “I know,” I say.