I thought about saving this for a a funny Friday post in the hopes that it will be more funny than horrifying. Then I thought about it and decided, I'm just not sure if it's that funny. Well, it's Friday. Hope it's funny enough to qualify.
Within a week or two of the begininng of my courtship with my husband, he asked me to go to the Sweethearts dance with him--which I happily accepted. All of my roommates were going, and this was a first. We decided to make a day of it: pancakes for breakfast, fix each other's hair, and just spend time anticipating the fun evening ahead of us.
John came to pick me up before the dance, and took me back to his apartment where dinner was waiting. His roommates and their dates were there as well, and we had chicken enchiladas and strawberry daiquiris, my first introduction to my future husband's specialty. After dinner we headed up to the MC and got our pictures taken first. Then we blissfully headed to the dance floor. As we started in on that first magical dance, I felt something very, very unmagical going on in my stomach. And I made a mad dash for the bathroom. It was packed full. And I was humiliated. The smell refused to stay confined in my cubicle.
Feeling slightly relieved, I headed back to find my date. Less than five minutes later, a familiar sensation began creeping into my stomach once again. Feeling a little embarrassed, I made the excuse that I had just seen one of my friends, who I hadn't seen in a long time and wanted to go talk to her. I gracefully swept out of the ballroom and booked it for the bathroom. And again it was packed. Further humiliation ensued.
This scene repeated itself about 2 more times before John got annoyed and asked what was going on? I finally admitted to him that I felt sick and asked if we could leave. As we were exiting the building we passed my roommates and I pulled them aside and desperately begged them to tell me if they had any pepto or Imodium or ANYTHING at the apartment that I could take. Because I was past humiliation. And in pain. And I was starting to stink a bit. Alas, all that was offered was gas-x and I didn't think that the best route to take.
When we got to my apartment, I explained everything with a cherry red face and my sweet John was nothing but sympathetic and concerned. And then I think he went home and told his roommates and they got a good laugh at my expense. But the next day, they all did a glorious job of feigning concern. Thanks, guys.
P.S. I blame the pancakes. They were Western Family. Never since has WF pancakes darkened my doorstep.