Fainting problem BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

I should have been born a Victorian lady, back when smelling salts were de rigueur, corsets were a veritable symptom, chaise lounges could be plopped on gracefully, and men understood the need to catch you at a moment’s swoon.

I first became aware that I might have a fainting problem in Paris, where I spent a year supposedly studying at the Sorbonne after high school.

One night, my roommate, a Californian with a pot habit that took him to Amsterdam regularly, pulled out the bag of purple haze he’d scored on a recent trip. With a childhood friend crashing with us, we three began a sin-filled evening that also included cards, red wine, and Gauloises cigarettes. Somehow the conversation turned to infantile topics and became some weird bastardization of truth or dare, the rules of which made perfect sense to us at the time and now make no sense at all. My roommate had had a long-time, on-again-off-again relationship with someone back home who loomed large in our apartment conversations, so when it came my time to ask a question, I (I’m 18, remember) asked him if he’d ever had anal sex with this woman. This was apparently the most shocking thing I could think of, and I guess it shocked me because when he answered, "yes," I keeled out of my chair and hit the floor.

My childhood friend was convinced I was dying and spent a good while trying to give me mouth to mouth (the only time we French kissed, he likes to say now) until my roommate finally called the SOS (French 911) and an EMT arrived to tell me to elevate my legs.

At the time I chalked it up to the combination of toxins I was forcing into my body and vowed to never touch purple haze again.

But there have been more episodes: Once totally sober in college, on the way to the bathroom to take a morning shower with just a bathrobe on, which of course flew wide open; once at a restaurant on the Upper West Side, where all that could be blamed were a sip of red wine and an empanada; once at dinner at a friend’s, where I said something along the lines of how much I liked Jennifer Anniston and then keeled over onto a stone floor.

Somehow, no one seems to have any real idea what the problem is, except that I faint. One doctor thought maybe I was allergic to marijuana, but that didn’t explain the times when I was sober. Another suggested sulfites in red wine. Another thought loss of blood due to my period. Another thought stress. The list goes on and on.

My most recent episode happened at the vet. My cat Ellison and I had an early-morning appointment to inspect what appeared to be a hard lump on her side, a situation which admittedly made me anxious.

At first, everything was going great. The lump was a rib, she looked pretty healthy, but her weight, no surprise, was a problem. I don’t know, maybe the weight discussion got to me. I remember saying, "Do you mind if I sit down? I’m feeling a little funny . . ." And then, kaboom. Ellison thought I’d died. My vet panicked and rushed her out of the room.

When I awoke from what seemed like a very intense dream I was covered with sweat and surrounded by EMTs, a Gurney, and my vet saying, "I don’t work on this species." He must not know much about the human female’s psychology, either. Later, when I came to pick up Ellison and pay my bill, he told me the last thing I said before I went down was, "Do you think I’m overweight?"

"Bramhall Square" runs every other week, and Caitlin Shetterly can be reached at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com