Once, while on a date at Piero's, a fancy-schmancy restaurant, I excused myself to the ladies room to "freshen up." When I got there, I realized they were out of toilet- seat covers. Being a germ-phobe, I made due with toilet paper which I draped strategically around the seat four or five times. After finishing my business, I washed my hands, spruced up my make-up and strutted back through the restaurant to my date, who was smiling ear to ear as I approached.
As I sat back down at the table, he motioned for me to lean in—he wanted to whisper something in my ear. I felt sure he was going to say something wonderful and complimentary. He whispered, "You have an extremely long string of toilet paper hanging out of your skirt."
Another time, having a nice lunch at Sushi Fever, I was listening intently to a different date tell me how he'd made the decision to go into podiatry. He was animated and seemed thrilled to have a captive audience as he talked about his love for feet, especially bad feet, the more corns and calluses the merrier. I had to bite my lip as I thought to myself, Hmmmm, maybe I've met my sole mate. I didn't want him to think I wasn't interested in what he was saying about bunions, so I never dropped his gaze. As I lowered my lips to sip my iced tea, I was struck by a sudden and horrifying pain. It was as though an electrical current had zapped my eye socket and jolted my brain. I jerked my head back and yelped. When I opened my eyes I could feel the straw still stuck up my right nostril.
And then there was the time I was running so late that I called my date and told him to get a table and that I'd find him when I arrived. I whizzed right past the hostess and told her that I could see my party waiting. She said something I didn't hear in my haste. I was in a half-jog when my date caught sight of me and waved. I was waving back and smiling when I ran face-first into the glass door, causing me to stumble backwards in shock and fall flat on my butt. Apparently, the hostess was trying to tell me to be careful of the newly cleaned patio doors.
First dates make me anxious, causing me to do really embarrassing things. The only thing worse is blind dates. But all the inept, maladroit, ham-fisted antics of the past didn't come close to what happened on my first date with Dick.
Dick and I were set up by a mutual friend, a Metro police officer who swore I would love Dick.
As I usually do on first dates, I met Dick at the restaurant. When he showed up, I was very pleasantly surprised. He is a personal trainer who obviously takes his work very seriously and doesn't load up on carbs. I was secretly very glad that I'd gotten back in the gym for the past two days and that I was eating a high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet myself. With the exception of the two chili cheese dogs I'd had for lunch, which, incidentally, weren't exactly settling too well in my stomach. Nerves. Had to be nerves. Just be cool, remain calm, I told myself. Dick is going to love you.
As we were being escorted to our seats, the hostess apologized and said the table she had was in a corner, very private but a little cramped. Not unlike my tummy at that very moment. Damn those chili cheese dogs!
After he was situated, Dick reached into the leather jacket he was wearing and pulled out a single red rose. Oh. My. God. How romantic! He started by saying that he was very happy to finally meet me. That Big Jim had sworn up and down that Dick and I would be a perfect fit.
Suddenly, I couldn't make out what he was saying. His lips were definitely moving, but I couldn't concentrate on what he was talking about. My intestines seemed to be twisting and bulging inside of me.
My breathing was heavy and beads of sweat glistened from my forehead. All I could think was that I had to make a run for it. Had to make it to the ladies room and fast. I tried to stand up but was pinned by the weight of the table. "Are you OK?" Dick asked. "You don't look so good."
"I'm fine, I just, it's, I ..." I tried to stand up again, my tummy churning and turning and grumbling. I put my hands around the edge of the table and tried to lift. And that's when it happened: Like a jet engine, I passed gas in front of Dick.
Girls are NOT supposed to do that. Ever.
I'm not talking about a teensy toot that you could play off as though someone had stepped on a barking spider. No. I ripped one that was more like machine-gun fire. It was long, it was loud and it was deadly.
The look on Dick's face was priceless. He started laughing, hysterically. OK, I know couples who have been married for years who have never farted in front of each other, and here I was on a first date, a blind date, with a gorgeous, charming man, letting loose with enough gas to get me to Jersey. Dick was laughing so hard he could hardly pull the table out for me. He managed to ask between laughing breaths, "Did ... did you ... did you just ... poop yourself?" I didn't have time to be embarrassed. I raced for the bathroom. (And no, for the record, I didn't poop myself.)
When all was said and done, I knew I didn't have what it took to face Dick again. I decided I'd do what any self-respecting woman would do: sneak out. "Sonja, wait!" he yelled. He stopped me in the parking lot. I couldn't even look him in the eye. "Come on, you little stinker," he said, "don't be such a party pooper!" He started laughing uncontrollably again. "No big deal, shit happens!" I couldn't believe that he could find so much humor in my humiliation. And, I didn't poop myself. But his laughter wasn't subsiding. And I found myself laughing, too. Not as hard as he was—for fear I might fart again—but definitely laughing.
The date was wonderful. We laughed, we talked, we laughed some more, and we made plans to see each other again on Wednesday night. I promised to skip the chili dogs.