Ah, the first date, a time of magical possibilities and, as well, a time perilous with the ever-watchful eye of judgment looking for a reason to say, “no, this person is a dipshit.” It’s a time when we want to wear our cutest outfits, you know, the one that just looks awesome on you and makes your ass look absolutely perfect, and we want to find that delicate balance between being funny and being on our best behavior. It’s a time when one might want to think about taking care of embarrassing bodily functions before you get to his or her house, preferably before you leave your own. Indeed, and while I think we’d all agree that “pull my finger” is no way to break the ice, I believe that there are ways to let a little wind go without anyone being the wiser. I mean, you’d have to be a complete idiot not to take it to the john, right? Let me say this, I’m no complete idiot.
But first, I want to digress. While discussing my first date embarrassing moment with my friends, some of them shared theirs, too. That’s what guys do. We compare stories and revel in each other’s humiliation. It’s great fun. A friend of mine told me that he had, you know, that all-too familiar intestinal urgency when he went to a woman’s place to pick her up. He asked to use her powder room, and to make a long story short, her toilet was soon thereafter overflowing onto her bathroom floor. There was no second date. I told him that he should have just walked out of the bathroom and said something like, “Hey, you seem wonderful, but I don’t think that we’ll ever work. Have a nice night.”
But this isn’t about his embarrassing moments. It’s about mine.
I met Stephanie in Quebec. We were there for a two-week French immersion program while we were students at the University of Maine. She was sweet, smart, pretty, and funny. I was, of course, awesome. I had a girlfriend who a year later was my wife. Stephanie had a boyfriend. She’s told me since then that she had a bit of a crush on me and that she liked how I didn’t hit on her. I did have a girlfriend, you know. More than a decade later, after my separation and divorce, after some alone Ted-time in my life, after a lot of therapy, after I was ready to put myself back on the market, I thought to myself, I’d like to meet someone like that Stephanie I met in Quebec.
And not long after this, Stephanie had been stalking me on the Facebook. She sent me a message asking me if we had met each other in Quebec. We had, and we became friends on the Facebook. We sent each other messages, and we left sweet and funny comments for each other. It was amazing. Unfortunately, she lived in Brooklyn and I lived in tiny Old Town, Maine, eight-ish hours away.
We managed to get together once, though. She was in Maine to visit friends for a few days before Christmas 2010, and we got together for dinner at the Liberal Cup in Hallowell, not far from where I work. It was a nice dinner, a sammich and some sweet potato fries, a couple delicious brews. Afterward, we went to sit in front of Dr. Zeleniak’s office in Augusta, and sat in my car talking in the glow of his Christmas light display set to music. It was a great night. But Steph and I don’t really consider this our first date. We were just old friends who reconnected on the Facebook getting together to catch up. I had not, at this point, had any scatologically embarrassing moment.
A couple days later, she told me that she’d had a crush on me back in Quebec. I told her that I had a crush on her right now. Yadda-yadda-yadda. We decided to get together for New Year’s. I had a four-day weekend, so I made the trek to Brooklyn on December 30th.
I was a bit nervous. I really liked her, but I didn’t want to rush anything. I didn’t want anything to be awkward or uncomfortable so far away from familiar turf. It was a long and anxiety-filled drive. Stupid-ass rubberneckers heading south on 495 in Massachusetts slowing down to look at an accident in the fucking northbound lanes, are you fucking kidding me? I don’t want to die on the interstate before I get a chance to spend some time with her. And really, she lived in Brooklyn. I lived in Old Town, Maine. How could this work? What was I thinking? Let’s just try to have a good time together. Why the hell didn’t I have a GPS? Do you know how hard it is to use printed directions on busy, unfamiliar highways as it’s getting dark out? What in the world was I thinking? And the traffic, why didn’t I leave earlier? How long does it take to get through this stupid toll plaza? Why does it look like I’m heading out of New York City now? Is this Long Island?
Stephanie had to talk me in. I called her to say I was absolutely lost, and she pulled up a map on her laptop. She managed to get me to her door, and we were able to chat a bit as I made my way to Eastern Parkway and the Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. I put my car in a garage for the weekend, and she showed me up to her place. We chatted a bit, and she told me about a place she thought would be nice for dinner. I had to use the restroom, and then we’d be ready to go.
And by “restroom” one might think that I’d sat down, but hey, I’d been sitting in that driver seat all friggin’ day.
Often, while making water—I’m sure I’m not alone in this—I might release a little wind, as Benjamin Franklin called it. And on a side note, I often excuse myself while at a public urinal. “Oh, pardon me,” “Golly, what’s happening to me,” and so forth. One time, a guy said, “Don’t worry, man. Every once in a while you need to release a little back pressure.”
There I was, standing in Stephanie’s bathroom, making water, and I had to release a little back pressure. I certainly didn’t want to let this go while we were having fish tacos. Ah, sweet release. Only, as it turns out, this wasn’t an entirely wind related event. I felt a little trickle down my leg. If I hadn’t already been shitting my pants, I would’ve shat my pants. No, I absolutely did not want to let that go while we were having fish tacos.
Time to think and act quickly, Ted.
I cleaned up. It wasn’t a bad mess. My jeans were spared. The toilet paper didn’t clog the toilet. (With such a long drive ahead of me, I'm glad I didn’t have to just walk out and tell her to have a nice night.) But there was the problem of the remaining evidence. My poopy drawers were on her bathroom floor.
I quickly reviewed my options. The first thing that came to my mind was to tell her. She seemed like a pretty easy-going person. She did have a crush on me. But did I want to gamble on the weight of that crush? No. Stupid idea, Ted. Could I hide them in her teeny-tiny, little trash can? Hmm, not likely, even if I had rinsed the shit out of them. Could I smuggle them out to my bag? Again, no. Did I have to tell her? Shit!
Then I looked up. Behind the commode, slightly higher on the wall, there was a window. It opened easily, and my poopy underdrawers were gone, forever, into that good night.
I had done it. I had just shat my pants, hid the evidence, and no one would ever know. Ever.
Until, of course, I got back to Maine, and told some of my friends. This was too hilarious. I told Stephanie a few months later, after that crush had turned to love. She laughed and confirmed that I had made the right choice not to tell her.
My secret New Year’s resolution for 2011 was to not shit my pants at all, and I didn’t, that whole year.
