The Martlet

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard the word “boner” in the last four months I’d be a very, very rich girl.

Embarking on my recent Southeast Asia adventure, I figured this time instead of traveling with my wacky best girl friends, I’d try globe-trotting with one of my oldest best boy friends — mix it up a bit, gain a fresh perspective.

I assumed he’d look out for me if I got quarantined by Thai immigration, have my back if I drove my motorbike into a pole and even protect me should — say — a rogue cat jump through the roof of my bungalow.

As if.

Apparently, chivalry is over.

Our dynamic duo quickly expanded, and soon I was the lone doe in a herd of carefree bucks (and it wasn’t mating season).

Talk about your culture-shock. The local customs were nothing compared to living with three guys.

For one, my eating habits turned to shit. At first I stayed with my staples: tofu, veggies, bran. It only took about three “meals” for the boys to protest:

“People die from not eating meat, you know.”

Okay, so nutritionists they’re not, but their constant nagging, their under-the-breath muttering and their tossing of my salads like confetti began to take its toll.

Soon I was devouring burgers and fries with the best of them. Add to that my emerging mantra: “beer is the new water,” and it’s no wonder my stomach turned the consistency of Play-Doh.

Apparently, guys don’t need to exercise.

The only strenuous activity I did was haul around my backpack (which, I might add, was the size of a small adult).

The boys’ gear, on the other hand, tucked nicely into backpacks the size of the one I wore in Grade 4 with a My Little Pony on it.

Whereas I packed a practical wardrobe (15 shirts, five pairs of shorts, six dresses, three sweaters and 12 bathing suits), the boys were a different story: three shirts, a pair of shorts, a bathing suit and a stash of condoms the size of a bag of Doritos.

You’d think with all the weight they weren’t carrying they’d occasionally aid me with my go-kart sized sack.

No.

They reveled in watching me suffer. During one particularly rainy day, the straps of my bag finally snapped, causing me to fly backwards ruining my precious wardrobe. The boys paused only long enough to comment.

“Strap a 100-pound bag on hundred pound girls, and that’s what you get.”

“Must be the 12 bathing suits.”

“Or the knee high boots.” (I forgot to mention those.)

Then there was the constant film quoting, the burping, the farting, the inexplicable messiness and the fact that they stuck Cheetos up my nose when I slept.

It all blurred together to form what became both the most beautifully unorganized and disturbingly eye-opening trip of my life.

I certainly learned how to not sweat the small stuff.

Missed our ferry? No problem.

Hostel full? No problem.

Rabid monkey bit the female group member? No problem.

The boys ultimately had my back and taught me how to have fun, to let down my guard and to shed my hyperconsciousness.

Even if I do have 20 pounds to lose now.