I made it in to work - unscathed. Dirty and wet, but very much alive. I tell you, there's nothing that will make you feel more alive than riding on your bike in the dark with horizontal rain and gusts of wind threatening to blow you off the road. In the spirit of being alive I'd like to share a story with you that was shared with me by a friend. If you're of the sensitive sort, stop reading now.
|Man of my dreams|
I was trying to lose a few pounds so I was staying away from carbs. That’s when I met my husband. On our first date, he booked the next two. He liked me. I liked him. Things were looking real good.
He picked me up in a Mustang and his pathetic attempt to win me over with a car totally worked. I’m not shallow, but since I spent most of my twenties picking men up in my car because I didn’t want my hair to frizz in their non-air conditioned jalopies on 3 wheels and a 15 year old spare, I welcomed his fancy sports car with open arms.
We arrived at the restaurant and Dan was ordering food I hadn’t allowed myself to eat in months. I didn’t want to be “that girl” so I ate, drank, and oh, was I merry. Later we shopped a bit. Dan surprised me by buying an expensive pair of shoes that he caught me eyeing. Was this love?
|These heels are made for lusting over|
On the way home in his Mustang, he tried to hold my hand and ask me lots of questions, but I wasn’t having any of it. The pain was so bad it felt like I was being stabbed with a bunch of tiny forks. Then I realized …
My God, help me. I have a horrendous fart on deck. I’m in trouble. Big trouble.
The more I held it in, the more pain would shoot through my stomach and down my legs. I was even having to raise myself off the seat, gripping on to my door and the dashboard.
“Seriously, you need to hurry – I’m in a lot of pain.” I managed to say through gritted teeth.
“Wow, it’s that bad? What’s wrong? Do I need to take you to a hospital?”
HOW DO YOU TELL A MAN YOU JUST STARTED DATING, THAT THE REASON YOU ARE WRITHING IN PAIN IS BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO FART.
Well, you can either tell him, or like me, let the fart speak for itself.
People, hear me. There was nothing I could do. As impressive as I am with sphincter control, this was out of my hands. Slowly, it eeked out. The more I tried to stop it, the more it forced its way through the door. However, to my pleasant surprise, there was no sound. I sat silently, sweat accumulating above my upper lip. Ok, maybe I got away with it. Maybe I’m home free. Then it hit me. Not an idea, a cloud. A horrific, fart cloud. Not in a, “am I smelling something?” sort of way.
More like a “is someone dead and rotting in your trunk and am I in hell?” sort of way. Suddenly, I panicked. “Roll down the windows!” I screamed (yes, I literally screamed it like I was in a horror movie).
“What? Why?” Dan asked, starting to freak out because I was freaking out.
“I can’t roll down the windows, unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”
“What’s going on?” Dan yells back to me, “Why are you …” then it hit him. I could see it in his eyes. Was it surprise? Horror? Water started to accumulate at the base of his eyelids, “Oh my God, I CAN TASTE IT!” he screamed.
“Roll down the windows!” As I screamed, the toots started to flood out uncontrollably. I scratched and clawed at the window like I was being kidnapped. Dan, unable to see either by fart cloud or panic, kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of unlocking the window.
It was chaos. We were acting like we were under siege by gun fire. We were under siege alright, just not by gun fire.
Finally he was able to hit the right control and he rolled down our windows. We both gulped in fresh air. I was horrified, yet happy to be alive, then remembered I just farted on the man of dreams, then sorta wished I was dead.
We sat silently for the rest of the way home. Although the shooting pains had subsided, I now desperately needed to use the bathroom, in an urgent, explosive kind of way.
He pulled up to my apartment and before he could come to a stop I had already jumped out, “Ok, thanks for dinner, sorry about the fart, love the shoes!” and ran in to my apartment like I was running from the cops.
I burst through my door and ran straight for the bathroom, where I was finally able to unleash and make noises that no one should ever, EVER, hear coming from another person.
Then I heard it. Dan's voice. Right. Outside. My. Bathroom. Door.
“Nina? You left your shoes in my car and your front door was open. Where do you want me to put them?”
“Get away from the door!” I scream like Reagan from The Exorcist.
“Ok, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
*toot* *toot* *splatter* *ungodly noise*
“I’m fine, Dan – just leave the shoes there. I’ll call you later okay?”
“Okay, are you sure you’re …”
“I’m fine! Get away from the door!”
This man! I mean, I like him, but take a freakin’ hint!
Finally, I heard the front door shut, and the Mustang engine zoom away. I thought that was the last I’d hear from him. I didn’t think it was possible to ever see a man again after he screams he can taste your fart after only knowing you for 48 hours.
But, to my surprise, I did. A couple days later, actually. Now we’re married and he’s lying on the couch while I type this … “It was your rack that saved you,” he just lovingly reminded me.
(Names have been altered in order to protect the innocent)