If you’re new to this rag, I’ll recap. The story began with a night out drinking with the girls, cheap beer, natch, followed by a closing time run for the border. And when I’d made it through the hangover of the following day, and was ready to see my hotass Trophy Boyfriend, lo and behold I crapped my pants. While he looked on.
I then had no choice but to fess up.
And after I tried to put what teeny bit of smashed dignity I had back together, I peed on him.
(For those of you playing along, that would cover bodily functions One and Two.)
We resume our story just after I became fully awake, nudie-spooning and mid-tinkle, listening intently to Trophy Boyfriend’s breathing to determine if he was still asleep.
Unfortunately, he was not. So, there was no slipping quietly out of bed to go clean myself up and to blame whatever was left behind on him. DRAT.
Where are you going? He asked sleepily, as I was untangling myself from his octopus arms (he was, and remains to be, an all-night snuggler, and I often find myself a smothered and tangled mass of limbs and sheets and blankets).
Bathroom, I whispered back.
And as I slid out of bed, I tried to subtly wipe my hand across the mattress to determine the size of the, ahem, wet spot. But I felt nothing, and wondered for a split second if the tinkle only landed on me.
No such luck. He moved and stretched and then got a quizzical look and lifted the sheet to see what he was feeling. I considered making a break for it out of the nearest (third story) window, but I just had to see. Thankfully it was just a teeny tiny itty bitty little spot. Of pee.
Which he thought was, um, something else.
And I was spared the humiliation of telling him I had just dreamed his lap was a toilet. I considered that to be a very big victory.
I joyfully leapt to the bathroom to (again) clean myself up, slip into my sexy silky bathrobe, and brush away the morning breath. Then I sneezed. So I grabbed a Kleenex and blew my nose, and returned to the bedroom to give Trophy Boyfriend his First Anniversary of the Great Coupling ’98 present, MONSTERS OF ROCK. Because that’s the kind of guy he is. A spandex kind of guy.
I gave him his gift and he opened it and loved it, and leaned over to plant a smooch on me, stopping short to look at my chest. I didn’t really think twice about that, because if there was one thing I had learned thus far about Trophy Boyfriend, it’s that he was fan of the twins.
But this look was different. What’s that on your chest? he asked.
I looked down.
It was a ginormous booger on my chest, that’s what it was. Bodily Function Number Three.
I’ll give you all a moment to let that sink in.
In fewer than 24 hours, I sharted, tinkled on myself, and shot a boog square on to my own chest. All under the adoring eyes of the man with whom I was about to share a very important milestone.
The humiliation was so great that I honesty don’t remember the details of breakfast and showers and getting dressed and hopping in the car, but we headed off on our anniversary journey to a little Canadian B & B, stopping along the way at one of the many beautiful golf courses to hit some balls and hang out. Because that’s the kind of girlfriend I was – the kind that planned golf weekends for her love because it was his favorite. Not the kind that pooped and peed and snotted all over everyone.
The day was kind of quiet, which I interpreted as tense. And I naturally assumed it was because I was no longer a Hot Sex Kitten in his eyes. Not anymore. How could I be after all that? And as the day went on I got a little more mopey and a little more trapped in my head and a little more sure he was just going through the motions, waiting to break it off once we were back home and he was headed back to his place. Because he thought I was gross.
And he did nothing to combat those thoughts because he was silent and fidgety and seemed very far away.
We arrived, checked in, changed clothes, and headed out to dinner at this little place overlooking the water, and quietly drank wine and ate steaks and did I mention it was quiet? Yep. Pin drop quiet. We had nothing to say to each other.
And once or twice during that meal I almost went ahead and did it for him. Broke things off. Because I just couldn’t take the silence any longer, and I really didn’t want to give him the opportunity to actually say the words I can’t be with you anymore because you sharted. I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover if he said them first.
We finished dinner and went outside, and he suggested we walk down around the water. It was a beautiful warm June night, the moon was bright and reflecting off the lake, and we were alone. Perfect breakup spot. So I took a deep breath and readied myself, and turned to face him.
Only, he wasn’t there. At least not at eye level. He was on bended knee, extending the most beautiful princess cut diamond solitaire I had ever seen.
Will you marry me? He asked. (He’s got a way with words, that one.)
I said yes. Well, actually I didn’t. I said no. First I said no. And then I asked if he was sure, because I was difficult and a mess and he could certainly do better. And then I cried.
He said I don’t want to do better. I want to do you.
And then I said yes.