April 2, 2012
I don't know if you've ever been to Costa Rica, but contrary to what you may think, one of the greatest things here is not the beach.
Oh no. Definitely not. Nor is it the men. Or the fishing. Or the pineapple that I bragged about eating the other day.
In reality, quite possibly the greatest thing about Costa Rica is–—bongo roll—-the shot.
Contrary to what I know you assholes are thinking, I don't mean “the shot” as in a shot of liquor. (See? I know you too well. I know that's where you thought I was going with this.) On the other hand, what I'm referring to is the ginormous syringe of mystery liquid that they inject into you at the pharmacy at the slightest sign of a head cold.
Costa Ricans do not like head colds. Fucking terrified of 'em. In fact, if you have a stuffy nose, you might as well be quarantined. Work? You can't work. You have a sore throat! In fact, you might even die! What you need to do is halt everything and haul ass over the pharmacy, STAT.
And then…………the shot.–
I've known about the shot for a while now.
Worked wonders once when I was here as a teenager, shivering and nauseous in 95 degree weather, covered in blankets. My Costa Rican boyfriend immediately left work, came and picked me up, took me to the pharmacy where they injected me on the double.
I kid you not–a mere two hours later I was getting dressed to go to a soccer game in a neighboring town. FELT ABSOLUTELY FINE. In fact, I felt so fine, I want to say I drank a beer and danced on the bleachers. (Total lie, but just go with it.)
I never asked what was in the shot. I didn't want to know. I didn't need to know. Hell, I tell people all the time how I've never even smoked a cigarette a day in my life–wouldn't it be funny if I unknowingly took heroin? (Actually, that wouldn't be funny at all. Never mind.)
So today, on top of having no electricity and no Wifi throughout town, I also happened to wake up with a head cold.
Dun dun dun!
Sound the alarm!
So naturally, the very first thing I do is jump up and down with glee, because I know what this means. I know this means that I now have a reason to go get the shot. And I'm clearly very excited. Oh, the excitement to be had! (I'm secretly just hoping it will help fend off cancer.)
So I walk to the pharmacy around the corner, like any normal person who is unnaturally excited about getting an injection in their ass. Because, you see, the shot is ass-specific. There's no upper-arm shots here. Uh uh, buddy. Drop your drawers and let's get the party started.
And I wait. And I wait. I talk to the girl at the counter about her best recommendations for products you can rub in between your legs so the insides don't get raw and red and DISGUSTINGLY, UNCOMFORTABLY, MAKES-ME-WANT-TO-DROWN-MYSELF-IN-THE-PACIFIC KIND OF CHAFED. Because that happens when you're a chick who's approximately 20.2 pounds overweight who tries wearing anything other than pants while living in a tropical climate. Your fucking legs rub together when you walk. Throw some humidity into the mix, and let me tell you something–this is a much bigger problem than you think. It certainly lowers your odds of mastering the mechanical bull at the dive bar up the street–that's for damn sure. And a girl from Scranton's gotta represent.–
Finally, the doctor is ready to see me.
That's right. A doctor on staff at the pharmacy administers the shot. And even better–you have to go in the back, into a private room, alone with him. This seems illegal. But hey–do as the Romans, right?
So you can imagine the look on my face, in the midst of all of my excitement, when I discover that the doctor in the back, waiting to give me a shot right in my ass is no other than THE GOOD LOOKING MAN I DANCED SALSA WITH ALL OF SATURDAY NIGHT, WHO ASKED ME OUT ON A DATE, WHO I GAVE MY PHONE NUMBER TO, WHO I THOUGHT ABOUT KISSING BUT DIDN'T.
*shakes fist at universe*
I can't decide, in that very instant, if I should just roll with it, or back out. You see, when getting the shot, they make you lay down on your stomach on a table, pants down, bare butt exposed. And I instantly don't know if I can do that. Not with this guy. Not with any dignity, anyway. I mean, there's got to be at least 3 dates before you even come close to seeing my butt. This didn't feel right. Like cheating. Or people who skip grades in elementary school. Fucking cheaters.–
That said, let's play a little game. What do YOU suppose I did?
Do you think I went through with it? Or not?
I want to know.
Because I'm not telling you how the story ends yet.