Every species has its natural rival. Cats have mice. Wolves prey upon deer. Zebras are hunted by lions. Mailmen are weary of dogs.
Sarah Khanâ€™s arch nemesis? The water bottle.
Possibly the result of a widespread conspiracy, water bottles strongly object to be opened by me. I twist, I turn, I grunt, I moan, I beseech the higher powers, but the stubborn containers responsible for my despair sit there, poker-faced, taunting me with their obstinacy. Dasani, Aquafina, Evian, Fiji, Poland Springsâ€”theyâ€™re all in it together. I once spent an entire evening engaging in combat with a bottle of Gatorade, attacking it with pliers and stabbing holes in its cap with a knife, all to no avail. Eventually, my rather diminutive roommate came home and effortlessly unscrewed the top, all the while chattering about her day. I like to think Iâ€™d loosened it for her, of course.
Some might presume that I play up this feeble act as a ploy to woo unsuspecting men. While Iâ€™m sure boys appreciate the opportunity to play the role of chivalrous and macho knight-in-shining-armor to my damsel-in-bottle-opening-distress routine, Iâ€™m really not looking to be impressed by anyoneâ€™s unscrewing prowess. Sorry, guys, Iâ€™m not flirty. Just thirsty.
While many of you may be quick to write me off as a weakling, deeming my own physical shortcomings and rather delicate stature as the culprit, I suspect a more grave affliction may be to blame for my condition: I lack the bottle-opening gene common in most humans. My inability to free beverages from the confines of their vessels must have been written in my DNA; my non-bottle-opening-ness is as much an integral part of my identity as curly hair, speed-talking, and French-fries-and-mayo eating.
But science has made great strides, and I have faith our medical community is on the road to curing this, my only defect. Until then, just point me to the nearest water fountain.