I don't know.....I just have terrible luck in the dating world. It's almost like I'm not supposed to date or something. However, the last person I went out with gave me a glimmer of hope that perhaps my streak of dating failures was just about over. He was decent looking; he was a gentleman; he had a good career; he was a father of grown children; he could cook; and, he could fix things. We went out a few times, and each time, I grew more fond of his company. Never inappropriate with me, never pushed, never made me uncomfortable. This was working out pretty well, or so I thought. Unfortunately, the logistics was becoming difficult, as me, with a young child still at home, and he with no such encumbrances, couldn't seem to work out much after the first two weeks as far as getting together. And so, it became fairly clear to me that this, unfortunately, was probably not going to work out. I decided to chalk this one up as yet another uneventful chapter in my dating life.
Yes, it seemed to be coming to an end as quickly as it all began. Or, WAS IT?
That very same week I made this revelation, and the writing on the wall told me that a blossoming relationship with this fine fellow wasn't written in the stars for me, I got a text from him. He wanted to cook dinner for me at his house for me the following Saturday. Well, what a surprise! Perhaps I had jumped the gun, and perhaps he had a change of heart and decided the logistical nightmare would be a small price to pay to pursue this with me. I ignored the little voice in my head telling me, "You know, Sheila.....he probably had his date for Saturday cancel on him, and he didn't want to re-freeze those tuna steaks". No, in my at-times overly-optimistic mind, this was a sign that things were not as dismal as they had seemed to me just a couple of days before.
This date coming up gave me something to look forward to. This particular week wasn't looking so hot for me--I had my first colonoscopy scheduled for that Friday, and starting on Thursday, I wasn't going to be able to have anything to eat all day but clear liquids. Thursday night was not going to be pleasant, either--I'll spare you the details of what I had to do in preparation for the procedure the next day. Suffice it to say, the end of my week was truly going to suck. Now, instead of dreading the latter part of the week, I was excited! I decided I could get through Thursday and Friday fine, just as long as I had this to look forward to on Saturday.
Let me clue you in a little about me before I go any further. I have never been a person who found humor in poo-poo, pee-pee, or bodily functions. I hate The Three Stooges, and when everyone else is laughing to the point of tears at someone belching or letting one rip, I'm the one rolling my eyeballs. It's not that I don't have a sense of humor, it's that I like to think mine is more highly evolved. It is with this mindset that I conduct myself the way I do. I go to great lengths to avoid situations where any involuntary bodily function of my own is experienced by others. Suffice it to say, I would be mortified in the event I accidentally belched, or WORSE, in public. I pride myself in being lady-like and elegant.
And so, I got through Thursday and Friday. I don't know if you've had the opportunity to experience a colonoscopy, but if not, I'll tell you---the worst part is not getting to eat the day before, and what you have to do the night before to ready your colon for examination. The procedure itself is quite simple and basically discomfort free. All I know is that I went to sleep, and while I was asleep, and before they would begin the procedure, they would be filling my colon with air---you know, so they could see what was going on in there. Sorry, but that little fact is important to know.
After my procedure, my daughter took me to lunch. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I remembered the nurse reminding me not to eat heavily immediately after, and the next two days--but I was hungry, dammit. Sensible medical advice be damned, I ordered a whole slab of Memphis ribs, mashed potatoes, and corn. With a full belly, I came home, and slept a good, solid 12 hours.
I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 2 am Saturday morning, rip-rarin' to tackle my day. I had just lost two days due to hunger and going to the doctor, and I had a lot to do before showing up at Mr. Wonderful's house at 6:30 pm! My day flew by, and I felt GREAT. I showed up at my date's house bearing a bottle of red and white wine, and my award-winning chocolate truffle cheesecake. He greeted me at the door, and ushered me inside, smiling. He showed me around his house, and I was quite impressed. He built on additions to the house, he installed his own windows, he had the yard landscaped nicely. What a guy! I watched intently as he seared the tuna steaks like a professional. We chatted, drank wine, and then ate some cheesecake. Somewhere in the back of my mind, that damned nurse's voice kept echoing "Now remember, don't over do the food right away!". Again, I chose to shut her up.
After dinner, we watched a movie in his cozy family room. "What kind of music do you like?", he asked after the movie. Turns out, we're both Motown freaks, so we went into his living room and proceeded to take turns choosing our favorites and listening to them on his wonderful sound system. And so, the evening continued listening to Gladys Knight and the Pips, The Temptations, and the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose. What a great night, and what great company! I smiled to myself, and said a silent prayer of thanks to God for allowing me to meet such a wonderful person. A more perfect night, I couldn't imagine. I excused myself to use his restroom, with the promise "I'll be right back!"
As I came out of his restroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. I curbed a smile, and noted how nice I looked after getting plenty of rest and a few good meals. I happily trotted into the room, and got ready to take my place on the couch next to my date. As I sat down, however, an unfamiliar sound, a sound that wasn't supposed to permeate the silence, filled the air. There was no mistaking what it was, or from where it came. "Pffffweeeet!" Dear. God. In. Heaven. No, no, NOOOOOO! I felt the blood rush to my face. I cannot begin to describe the look on his. Suffice it to say, the remaining hour that I was there wasn't the same. He barely talked. I barely talked. How awkward and embarrassing. I told him it was time for me to leave, and he didn't balk at that suggestion at all. A few days later, I would remember the look of relief on his face when I told him it was time for me to go home. I haven't heard from him since. At first, I thought that maybe I should explain, but then I thought how that didn't work out so well for George Costanza when he tried to explain "shrinkage" after swimming in cold water, so why would I think my explanation of "They had to fill me with air yesterday, you know, and they told me not to eat like an out of control chow hound, but I did anyway. I was hungry, dammit!" would work out any better for me?
All I wanted was to be the wind beneath someone's wings; instead, I was the person who broke wind in someone's living room.
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