So, as I was sitting on the toilet (where I do some of my best thinking) at 1:45-ish this morning, I was savoring my enjoyment of “Confessions Of a Shopaholic,” which I had just finished, and my mind wandered to clothing. My clothing.
I remembered that I used to wear dresses and skirts a lot; practically lived in them on the job front. And I recalled that a couple of my favorite dresses were made of rayon, a lovely fabric that is a nice weight and drapes beautifully. And then I remembered that I wore one of those dresses on a Spirit of Boston dinner cruise back in 1994 with my then-fiance and the parents of the children he cared for, with whom we were very friendly.
It was an “important” dinner, as it was May, we’d set our wedding date (Saturday, October 2), and we were giddily nervous with the resultant plan-making. I had even gone to have my hair done in an up-do! I left the shop (a small town beauty salon that was recommended to me) looking somewhat like Flo from Mel’s Diner and so took it down the moment I got home and redid it myself. Much better!
So, there I was on the Spirit of Boston with my fiance and the other couple, enjoying the party atmosphere, and the singing and dancing waiters, and the champagne and noisemakers, and the appetizers, and the dancing, and the dinner … And I’m feeling a bit gassy. Worse, I AM a bit gassy.
Crap! I thought, and excused myself to go to the restroom. But my body wasn’t ready to crap and so I was still gassy and now obsessing about it, because I didn’t want to pass gas in those close quarters in which it would be nearly impossible to walk away so as not to offend anyone or embarrass myself.
Clamp, I instructed myself. Clamp! And I did.
For a couple hours, I kept my butt cheeks clamped as tightly as possible in order to avoid an incident. When appropriate, I escaped to the bathroom and opened the valve, allowing (and sometimes forcing) built-up gas to escape. I’d have a blessed, albeit short, period of relief then I’d be plagued by the Gas Fairy again.
What the hell?! To this day I don’t know what prompted the problem.
Anyway, we returned to the dock and exited the yacht, then headed for the car, which necessitated a ride in an elevator. I was relaxed and happy. In spite of my gastronomic gripes, it had been a fun evening.
In that state (of relaxation and Massachusetts), I eased my clamped butt cheeks, and was rewarded with an appallingly urgent need to pass- Oh, to hell with the niceties! I had to fart big-time!!
Thankfully, we’d reached our level and the elevator doors opened. As my three companions exited ahead of me in my strategically chosen back corner, I paused just inside the elevator hoping to silently squeeze one out and still walk out smelling like Windsong.
At that moment, this gorgeous (seriously – tall, dark and handsome all over) hunk of manhood stepped into the elevator. It was the point of no return. I couldn’t hold it, I had to move, and I knew (hoped, prayed) I would never see this man again. Out it came like a freaking trumpet blare – no genteel puff from me, no sirree! I glanced back as I walked forward, eyebrows raised as if to ask, “What was that?” The expression on that beautiful man’s face – total incredulity and a wrinkled, clearly offended nose – was forever emblazoned on my mind as the elevator doors closed between us.
That ended my little problem for the evening, and the drive home in the back seat with my fiance passed (ahem) without incident. And once I was safely in my house, I finally allowed the laughter that had been building up – much like the gas in my intestine – to escape …
Much like it did at 1:45-ish this morning.