So, evidently in order to be considered a damsel in distress in Germany, one must meet some stringent requirements. #1- You must be in distress. #2- you must appear somewhat similar to, or bear a mild or vague resemblance to… well, a Damsel.
Not a cold, wet, dog, who has a left arm that is most likely covered in poison ivy. Yes, I said “arm”. I’m not exactly sure if it is deemed appropriate to call a dog’s two front limbs arms or not, but since I was referring to my own resemblance to the after-bath version of the canine race, I’ve decided I will make the rules. Rule#1- Dogs usually have four legs, but if they are wearing a soaking wet back pack and dodging traffic in a thunderstorm, they only have two… really, I guess it just depends on if they are standing up or not.. life is the real illusion. Rule #2- Don’t ever call me a dog. Especially not a female one. #3-Only in case I really deserve it (which is definitely a possibility).
Back to my story. I’m freezing cold. My pants are doing that embarrassing sagging thing (you know the one I’m talking about. I’m sure I will expound more on that one later) and my fingers appear slightly purplish in color. Obviously, I’m just beaming with joy and optimism.
To make a short story long, and potentially overbearing… today on my way home from school I failed to call a taxi at least one hour before I needed one to pick me up at the train station. Germany is a bit strange sometimes. I’m still not entirely convinced that the “taxi” I call each day is indeed a taxi, and not a bored retiree who gets a kick out of picking up cash from confused foreigners, but either way, I just dial a number and mumble a bunch of groggily sounding words with a German accent and just like magic, BAM! …I have a ride. Well, my “BAM!” wasn’t very bam-ish today. Instead of waiting an extra hour for the taxi to come, I got impatient (me? Impatient? Never...) and I decided that I would get in a little work out and just run the 3.5 miles to my house. No big deal right? I have legs… two of them… actually. So I cinched up my back pack straps and started out on an easy jog with a smile on my face (only.. it wasn’t as graceful as it sounds in the previous sentence…my heavy back pack was like flying over my head then crunching into my spine and my hair was blowing straight up like a freaking 80’s prom-queen, hairspray crown—only not even half so cool… which is really saying something). It was great, until suddenly, within only a couple minutes (really like magic this time), the blue skies were pushed out of view by an angry mob of grey thunder clouds. Almost instantly, my happy, fluffy, flying, 80’s crown hair was pasted to the sides of my soaked head and my mascara morphed into the inspiration of Kiss’s destroyer album makeup. The next three miles was up hill. Literally, it was..every inch of it. All in all though, it was kind of nice. I mean, I didn’t get hit by any cars (still hard to believe for me..), I didn’t actually get poison ivy (just the mental kind.. which doesn’t last as long), and I got to spend some time on Germany’s lovely little windy, deathly dangerous, yet strangely charming, sidewalk-less roads. Kind of a rush.
Bottom line? Don’t look like a wet dog. Germans do not pick up, slow down, or swerve for wet dogs… even if they are wearing a back pack… which in my mind in somewhat of an anomaly. They only look out the windows of their toasty warm cars and probably think the German equivalent of the “poor little thing” phrase (when I learn how to say it I’ll let you know- but it probably sounds something like “weinerstaugutreihlitionzuegdingbatschnitzel”).
Next bottom line (It really sounds like I’m expounding on saggy pants doesn’t it?), if you happen to look or feel like a wet dog and no one picks you up or swerves… don’t be mad. They are probably just worried about fleas. Which, I must admit, is a legitimate concern. Fleas are nasty… it’s pretty much a proven fact. I think I read it in a book somewhere.