Our first date was pretty good. A typical dinner out with friends. I got lemon chicken. He got steak. We held hands and looked into each other’s eyes. There was a sweet little kiss at the end.
Then came date two.
We were about to head out to dinner and it happened. I was doubled over in the floor with excruciating stomach pain. There he was watching, this guy I really liked and barely knew standing next to me looking very concerned.
He insisted on taking me to urgent care. I really didn’t want him to go, but with that much pain I didn’t say no.
He sat in the exam room as I went to x-ray. When I returned, he and the doctor were both waiting for me. He wouldn’t even look up at me. I was thinking something terrible was wrong.
The doctor then asks me when I had my last bowel movement.
Oh. My. Word. Humiliated, I glanced over at him. He was still not looking at me. I then realized my second date with this very cute guy was at a clinic being told I’m severely constipated. Way to make a great impression.
I tell him maybe he should leave. He informs me we’re way beyond that point. I get my milk of magnesia, walk out with my head down hoping this is all somehow a dream. I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Then, he tells me he’ll stay right by my side until the issue is resolved.
There we sat at my house for the next four hours. Me drinking chalk, him patiently waiting for it to work. The mortification factor at level critical. I had zero doubt this would be the end.
As he was leaving later that night he said, “By the way, that doctor talked to me before you came back to the room. He didn’t realize we barely knew each other. He read your x-ray and told me you were full of crap…only he didn’t say crap.”
A few years later, he married me anyway.