During lunch with my editor, she asked me what my column was going to be about this week. This was her passive aggressive attempt at reminding me of my impending deadline, which I nearly always seem to disregard in my passive aggressive attempt at standing up to the system. I responded that there were a couple of issues rolling around in my head that I felt necessary to get off my chest. This is the kind of responses that I always tend to give authority figures that doesn’t necessarily represent the entire truth.
For example, in high school, I would tell my teachers that my baby brother ate my homework to get an extension on assignments. I thought using a dog was a bit too clichéd and potentially threaten the validity of my excuse because I didn’t actually have a dog. What if my teachers started asking questions? What if they wanted to see pictures of me and Fido playing at the beach or playing fetch in the park? No, I couldn’t use a canine in my story because my teachers were also fully aware of my allergies. I couldn’t even sit next to the guinea pig cages in the science lab without breaking into large, boil-like hives. Coincidentally, this would occasionally cause a pretty large disruption in their lecture after they were forced to jump over a row of desks to inject me with an eppy pen in order to keep me from swallowing my tongue. I discovered early that when telling a small harmless fib, it is best to keep things simple.
I did indeed have a baby brother who would, in fact pick up anything found on the floor and immediately pop it into his gaping pie-hole. To circumnavigate the truth without actually lying, I would scribble my name along with a few sentences on a piece of paper and shove it fist full into my siblings drooling orifice. Yes, my way was better than using a worn and tired cliché about a dog.
While in an effort to divert attention away from the fact that I may not be the best of employees, I told my editor of my most recent date this week.
I met my date at my loft and we drove to a local restaurant where I could watch the latest America’s Got Talent and order drinks. The conversation with my suitor was as easy and as light as my mood. I decided to take the risk and order actual food. As a general rule, I avoid things like calamari and spinach dip while on a date due to the pungent odor they leave behind on my breath, but after a couple strong cocktails, I was glad that I had ordered something to soak up the sudden influx of gin that was going straight to my head.
Driving back to my loft after dinner, there was a momentary lag in the conversation and everything was quiet. Typically, I would use this time to reflect about the date itself and decide between an awkward handshake or a good night kiss. During those brief seconds of silence in the car ride back home, I did something that even eclipsed falling off the risers at my high school graduation and taking a couple innocent seniors with me.
While adjusting the seat belt, I farted…quite loudly. My date looked at me in sheer horror, and for a slight moment, I actually thought of jumping out of the moving car and running down Southwest Boulevard to avoid the awkwardness that was sure to follow. While my southern charm goes a long way in many situations, there a few things that are unforgivable during even the briefest of courtships. Letting one rip on the first date is one of those things.
Looking for a lesson is easy and would have to be this; during moments of extreme humility, even a self-confessed dating expert is reminded of his ordinary humanity and sometimes, you just have to laugh in spite of yourself.
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