Once upon a time, there lived a young girl. She was a princess in all ways but literal — brave (she volunteered first to share one fun fact about herself during syllabus week icebreakers), graceful (she walked through the Orchard Commons wind tunnel to class without flipping her umbrella inside out OR soaking the legs of her jeans), kind (she stopped to give somewhat accurate directions to a lost high school senior) and oh-so beautiful (the UBC Crushes Facebook admin’s phone now autofills her name).
She was the epitome of demure and mindful, though she would not be aware of such trends, ever too busy singing in public spaces to attract local wildlife to sew her dresses (though the end product is rather… kitschy, she’s always grateful. Everyone knows raccoons make shitty seamstresses. Kip the coyote, however, is a surprisingly proficient embroiderer.)
All was right in this princess’s world. She was lucky in bookstore lineups (the swipe-your-student-card-and-get-a-textbook-list printout system was reactivated only for her, her textbooks were all in stock and they applied the 10 per cent student discount they decided to get rid of a few years ago — no, I am not bitter at ALL), lucky in Blue Chip cookies (she always got there just as a freshly-baked tray left the oven) and even lucky in r/UBC (nobody has ever called her articles a “waste of time” or a “disgrace to student journalism”). However, she was not yet lucky in the one thing that people who don’t actually go to class treasure most.
Dear readers, she was not yet lucky in love.
Sure, there were suitors — first-year Instagram page DM guy, friend’s friend-of-a-friend who saw her that one time in the hallway guy, sitting-right-next-to-her even-though-the-bus-is-empty guy, electric-scooter-to-class guy, smoothie shop guy and chronically sweaty guy. The poor girl had even been courted by some of these fine fellows. And though she isn’t one to kiss and tell, this author is well-equipped to regale you with her woeful trysts.
One began with a not-so-evenly split mimosa tower at Browns on a Saturday morning — though ever the lady, our heroine did find herself with her head in a white, porcelain circlet later that afternoon. A stroll through the picturesque apple festival ended in seasonal allergies and the revelation that one cannot consume an entire bag of apple chips without losing a part of oneself. An evening spent watching the local sporting team take another unfortunate loss against literally every other team, prompting a swift retreat as her caller began to weep. Loudly. Publicly. Profusely.
But, our heroine did not give up hope. After all, her dear advisor (some girl she sat next to once in PSYC 207) once told her something about kissing a lot of frogs to find “the one.” After an unfortunate incident down at the local bog — our dear princess did not know toads were rather poisonous — she waited for her lips to stop swelling and resumed her ultimate journey: pass a chemistry lab. Just kidding — what a laugh! She resumed her mission to find the one to whom she could give her heart.
As the years went by, seasons changed and the world changed with them. She could finally walk from Buchanan to Great Dane again without cutting through Allard or North Parkade — a clear path in front of her, the stars were uncrossing. Celestial bodies were retrograding. (Or not. I don’t know.) Our heroine came to a revelation, though perhaps she should have been coming to a conclusion for her essay due the next day (shoutout my English profs). She knew — nay, she felt it in her soul, her bones, the dust mites in her squeaky Walter Gage mattress — she deserved someone positively, truly exceptional.
Then, she saw it. A single flier, picked up by a cherry-scented electronic cigarette breeze, fluttered most elegantly through the air, as if sent by god (of VeggieTales fame) himself. She reached out a dainty, manicured hand, and plucked it ever-so-gently from the air.
There he was. She had a time, a place, and, unlike Cinderella, she needed no magical pumpkin to get there.
The Knoll. The Nest. The centre of student life, the centre of her kingdom, really. It was better than a hand-written love letter, better than winning a back-to-school Instagram giveaway, better than… being single, I guess.
And so the day came. A crowd formed. And there he appeared, looking ravishing — no, dashing — no! All together apPEAling in a neon green ski mask one could only describe as “totally hot hunky dreamy.” Our princess, blushing most elegantly, found herself positively infatuated with the beauty standing before her.
Their eyes, meeting, would change her life forever.
Not only was Pea Man a man of good character — his event raised many a gold coin for a real, actual good cause, and unlike this very non-actual story, he was a man of his word. With each bite, our princess found some of her ladylike demeanor slipping away.
So formed her first ever impure thought, “I wish I were those peas.”
And so, that was that. The most romantic three hours of her life. She watched as he gobbled down each round green orb, and as he auctioned off a scintillating assortment of “Pea Man Elixir,” she believed it must be something akin to a magical love potion, an incredibly intoxicating substance, more alluring and all-consuming than the finest of wines. The mere sight of that green juice, and that green man, why, it made her heart skip several beats.
She was head over heels. Pea over pod. Lost in the sauce but the sauce was peas. And as the crowd chanted, screamed, went UBC’s version of wild — mild — our fated couples’ eyes met in a perfect moment across the crowd.
Time stopped. If this were a movie, the cinematic feel-good music would swell. If this were a fairy tale, a flourishing, ornately-penned “Happily Ever After” would swoop in cursive across the page.
But this, in fact, is life: fated lovers fail to meet, and peas are served mushy and cold.
The masses roared on, and our heroine had to go to class (she was on academic probation). When she returned from her three-hour lecture on Spinning Thread into Gold at the 300-level, Pea Man had vanished, likely in a pea-shaped carriage.
As summer’s kiss faded to a picturesque, autumnal glow, lovers began their annual strolls through pumpkin patches and ritualistic, seasonal drowning of themselves in pumpkin spice latte. Our beloved princess, alone, with not a soul to take outfit-coordinated couples photos with, sat on the knoll for three hours (or days) at a time, shovelling peas down her throat to remember her lost love. Other suitors would approach — some of lentil, some of bean, but none with orbs of chlorophyllic green.
At night, this most heartbroken heroine dreamed of joining his pod. She tossed, turned, yearned for his return. She bought mattress upon mattress, hoping for even a pea-sized amount of rest. She swore there was love in their brief eye contact, roots of a future, the most bountiful harvest.
“Pea Man, Pea Man, wherefore art thou, Pea Man?” she calls out to her loyal subjects (students) in front of the Nest, who promptly call security.
She saw him every time she wandered through the produce section. She chased ghosts of legumes, pondered the glint in the Green Giant’s eye. She left a trail of peas wherever she went, hoping against all odds that she would find him behind her, gobbling them up.
Alas, nothing she did could change her fate — it was simply not meant to pea.
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