My Idiot Friend

I had a friend in high school who happened to be a girl. Not a girlfriend – more of a friend of a friend, actually. I kissed her friend, she kissed my friend. The usual 17-year-old shenanigans.

​She was from the fancy all-girls school down the road. And she was Spanish. Her dad was an engineer posted to South Africa; I suspect because he was an aeronautical genius, but unfortunately, I never really got to know him well before she moved back to Spain on completion of her matric.

Let’s call her Maria – the most common Spanish name available. Maria was very pretty. Many years after high school, I visited her in Madrid and realised being beautiful is just the average standard for Spanish women. Maria was a 6/10 in Madrid, but a 9.5 in South Africa.

Anyway, we’ve kept in touch loosely ever since high school. Not close friends (I never cracked an invite to her wedding), but plenty of visits and trips together: Madrid, Kruger Park, Botswana, and the 2010 Soccer World Cup. I suspect Maria has a traveller’s soul like mine. I also remember Spain beat Holland in the 2010 World Cup. Maria and I didn’t talk for months afterwards.

​Okay, not really. I liked Maria far more than I liked soccer. That still doesn’t say too much, though; I hate soccer. If I wanted to watch a bunch of men run around for two hours and still not score, I’d just hang out with my mates in Hatfield Square.

During Maria’s studies, she came back for a visit to Pretoria, and we had a catch-up at Crawdaddy’s in Brooklyn. Just like us, Spaniards appreciate a good steak, and Rion and Rian know how to deliver.

​Maria and I never had a deep, meaningful friendship. Nothing wrong with that; that was just the kind of relationship we had. Most of our time together was spent playing drinking games with a bunch of old friends or cruising around Kruger at sunrise, cold Hunters Dry in hand for breakfast.

Over a steak, we caught up on life. “What are you studying?” I asked, expecting her to name something light, or nothing at all. Possibly “BA (Man-soek).”

“I’m in my second year of Veterinary Science.”

I laugh now at my foolish response. My jaw hung open and I almost dropped my fork. “I didn’t know you were clever!” We both chuckled; she was used to my nonsense. She told her mom the story later as well, and she also had a good laugh. Even the Spanish translation was amusing to mom.

​But years later, I thought about this evening over and over again. Why did I automatically assume Maria was daft? I eventually had an “epiphany.”

At that age, I genuinely did not believe pretty girls could be clever as well. Obviously a very stupid mindset – something I was not even conscious of at the time – it was a ridiculous subconscious bias.

You must understand I never grew up with sexism in my household. My mother and older sister would never have allowed it anyway. I went to an all-boys school where not only were we taught to respect female teachers the same way we respected male teachers, but you were seen as a pariah if you disrespected a woman at all – teacher or matric dance date.

​But the mindset was there, and I still have no idea where it came from. TV? FHM? A not-yet-dead habit from society in general?

​Fortunately, I learnt from this experience, as my life would probably have been far different had I not.

​I had a recent stint working as an estate agent (never, ever again, although that’s an unrelated topic). As a complete outsider and newbie to the industry, I was assigned to a mentor, Natalie.

​Boss Babe. Strong Independent Woman. I hate all those terms because they are stupid and irrelevant. But Nats would fit into any of those categories had I needed to describe her from a fool’s perspective.

Nats is also very pretty. Not relevant in a professional environment, but relevant to the story. 20-year-old me would not have thought Nats was smart. Fortunately, 40-year-old me had learnt a few lessons in life.

​In three months, I learnt not only more about the industry and area I was working in than any other “Candidate Practitioner,” but I got a few more life lessons thrown in for good measure. Nats was not afraid to tell me to “shut up and listen, this is something I definitely know more about than you do.” In her defence, when there was something I knew more about than she did (CRM, Data Protection, being a handsome 41-year-old man), Nats took the time and listened to me as well, and we both learned.

Had I stayed in the real estate industry and completed the relevant qualifications, Nats most definitely would have been the new “work wife” – something she and I had been joking about almost since day one.

And “My Idiot Friend” is now Dr. Idiot Friend, getting ready for an upcoming trip from Spain to Victoria Falls, where we will narrowly miss each other for a catch-up while I’m “just down the road” at The Bulawayo Club for the membership meeting.

​I never even finished university and have to rely on Maria to foot the Euro-based bar tab when I visit Madrid. Fortunately, a university degree is not a prerequisite for success, and I am at least able to pick up a few rounds in Kruger when the tab is priced in Rands.