If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.” My dad usually mutters this phrase under his breath while shuffling through bills, and I have taken my dad’s favorite saying to heart because it completely describes my love life.
Every time I meet someone remotely attractive, interesting or even just not repulsive, cosmic forces cock-block me. Just last week I was at a friend’s, talking to this guy, when out of the blue, he threw up near my killer new suede boots. Just my luck.
Maybe it’s the razor blades I sometimes find in my Reeses or my dangerous high heels and fishnet tights, but Halloween always seems to be particularly unlucky for me. My freshman year Halloween perfectly illustrates my horrible luck with the opposite sex.
Back in 2005, I went to this Halloween party hosted by a guy dressed as Scanner Dan. I was dancing with Dan, rubbing his large fake descending belly, until I saw a large yellow bear in my peripheral vision. And there he was standing in the kitchen, clenching a red cup of Miller Light: my Pooh Bear.
Curly swirls of dark hair peeked out from under his honey colored ears. I found his ability to exude sex appeal while wearing a furry child-sized costume quite impressive. I wanted to lick his face.
Pooh Bear’s cousin lived in my dorm, and introduced us. Soon, I had Pooh Bear eating from the palm of my hand and biting my earlobe. It was easy—after all, I was dressed as a catholic schoolgirl (original, right?). Plus, Pooh Bear seemed to have a thing for funny, self-deprecating girls who dress like hookers.
“Now I don’t want to upset you, but I’m a Jew,” he whispered into my ear. “What will daddy say?”
“I’ll convert you,” I twirled the rosary hanging on my neck. And with that, we discussed which bulimic animals were kosher, Larry David and his “Lord Of Rings” themed Bar Mitzfah.
As the night progressed, Pooh Bear moved to the couch. Being a man with literal animal instincts, he growled at me with a come hither look. So being smooth, graceful and ladylike, I ran full force and jumped into his lap. But I could tell something was different with Pooh when I landed. He seemed distracted, anxious, he kept glancing at the door. I wondered if he caught a glimpse of my “Jesus Saves” boy shorts while I soared into the air.
Suddenly, a rotten smell crept into my nostrils. It was the most awful stench—a mixture of year-old hardboiled eggs and my dad’s most lethal fart after a corn beef and cabbage St. Paddy’s day meal—the kind that makes my mom threaten divorce. And I wasn’t the only one who smelt it.
“Dude, what smells?” Ron Burgendy shouted. “ You might have a gas leak, bro. Shit.”
It was raucous. Everyone was crazed, opening cabinets, trying to locate the source of the fumes. During the panic, Pooh Bear snuck out, leaving me alone and dejected.
“I’m calling the fire department, there’s a gas leak!” Scanner Dan announced into his walkie talkie, before grabbing a phone.
“Let’s go,” Pooh Bear’s cousin said. “We’re going to get in trouble.” We quickly exited the party.
As soon as we were out of earshot, she started laughing. “A stink bomb went off in the apartment,” she said gasping for air. “When you jumped on my cousin’s lap, you broke the stink bomb he was carrying in his belly. He wanted me to tell you he was sorry, but he had to go.”
And I continue to live a cursed life: I’ve lost every eligible man’s phone number, been covered in mud and broken into pieces. But I can’t help but hope that one day my bad luck will lead me to a good place. Maybe I’ll crash into the right car, run into the right guy or maybe even the Mr. Right will slather me in his dinner.
Did you get lucky on Halloween? Share your stories with Ashley at aaspencer@wisc.edu.
