When I was 18 I dated a 24 year old guy named Dave. In my youth, I thought this was extremely sophisticated because he was obviously a very wise, older man. With a giant mole on his forehead and a mullet that rivaled Billy Ray Cyrus'.
One Sunday afternoon he asked me to join him and his dog, Roxy, for a walk in the forest preserve near his house. Consumed with the romantic possibilities, I said “Yes!” and put on a sexy casual outfit of flannel shorts and a white t-shirt (I was 18 - what did I know about being sexy?!). He picked me up in his super cool silver hatchback and off we went.
We walked hand in hand through the preserve while Roxy chased squirrels and paused to dine on an occasional tuft of grass. It was a beautiful warm fall day, full of hope and possibilities for young lovers. We strolled for an hour or so, reciting Wordsworth, picking wildflowers, listening to birdsong. The autumnal sun cloaked the world in a magical blaze, illuminating his face (mole), streaming through his hair (mullet). We were a romance novel cover. (Ok, that may be a slight embellishment.)
When Roxy was finished playing, we made our way back to the car so she could have some water. Dave opened the hatchback and sat down while Roxy quenched her thirst. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the car, toward him. He held my face gently in his hands and as he kissed me, a million butterflies danced in my stomach. After an eternity of kissing, we sat in the hatchback, in the empty parking lot, gazing into each other’s eyes. The butterflies were still going crazy in my stomach and, although this gave me slight pause, I chose to ignore them.
And then my stomach decided it would have the last word. In less than a millisecond my insides were churning, making obnoxiously loud not-so-sexy sounds. Dave asked if I was ok and as I bolted up I told him I was a little nauseous and thought I might throw up (because that’s what every guy wants to hear after he’s been kissing you). Luckily there was a Port-a-Potty at the far end of the empty parking lot. I say ‘luckily’ because, in that moment, I knew I was headed somewhere south of throwing up. And then I made the mistake to end all mistakes: I ran for the Port-a-Potty.
If you’ve ever shit your pants (or shorts, as the case may be) you know that running only makes it worse. Much worse. By the grace of God, I made it into the Port-a-Potty before anything got too far. Once I was inside, I was faced with the horror of having to clean up. As I was frantically grabbing for toilet paper and trying to stay as still as possible, someone knocked on the door. What the...?!?!?! Dave asked, “Are you ok?” I told him I was fine, just needed a few minutes.
So I spent the next 10 minutes trying to clean up my shorts so that no one would EVER know what happened. Sadly, life has a wicked sense of humor. My shorts might as well have been ultra thirsty paper towels. There was no hope - I was walking out of there with shitty shorts.
When I eventually came to terms with the situation, I made the torturous walk back to his car. To add insult to injury, the car had light blue cloth seat covers. As I climbed in I tried to position myself on my left hip so as not to make ass contact with the seat. For the 20 minute ride back to my house, I didn’t move and I didn’t say a word. All I could do was hope for a meteor to drop out of the sky and crush me to death. Even though the windows were all rolled down, I could still smell it, so I know he could, too. And so could Roxy. She kept sniffing the air and looking at me. It was, in all honesty, the longest 20 minutes of my life.
We broke up soon after that. I choose to believe it’s because we were at different places in our lives.
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