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JAN 30 , 2007
SWM
ISO MILD-MANNERED GUT
Had a date: dinner, movie. As in: dinner at my apartment, cooked by me.
The percussion section in my colon started
playing its
greatest hits around the time she arrived, but luckily it started off
with some
quiet — though not slow, not calm — numbers, unheard by the audience. But it was enough to distract me. Hard
to cook, hard to converse,
impossible to come across as erudite and charming when the thoughts
that occupy
your mind are not of flirting but of farting.
“Your haircut looks nice,” I wanted to
say. But kept my mouth shut, afraid it
would come out as “My gut's in a vise.”
We made guacamole. As
we started, she pointed to the carefully-selected, organic, wholesome,
family
farm-raised vegetables that were, of course, metaphors for my own
virtues. Onions, tomatoes, garlic,
avocados. “Can you eat all of these?”
she asked (she
knew, at least in the abstract, that my colon is not one of my merits).
Cramped and bloated and praying my answer would not
be
superseded by a preemptive argument from my lower regions, I assured
her I
could. Not green leafy things, I said,
no salads, no coleslaw. But guacamole .
. . yeah.
The conversation turned to ovens, and the relative
merits of
gas and elective. Ass clenched tight, I
stated that I like gas, while my mind added “in certain forms” and my
gut
continued to spin the tunes.
She opened a bottle of soda, which sprayed all over
the
kitchen, to much mirth. I imagined
myself as an extra-large container of volatile liquid, and started
thinking
that if I spoke or laughed or moved too much, I would bubble over, or
even
explode, and the effects would be much more harrowing than a sticky
floor.
Somehow, we started talking about religion, and I
recalled
my Mennonite upbringing and wondered if the demises recounted in the
Mirror of
the Martyrs could possibly have been as painful as spontaneous
combustion of
the gut or, failing that, death-by-humiliation. We
talked about lapsed Catholics, and I wondered: Who was the
Patron Saint of Lost Causes, again? Is
there a Patron Saint of
Gastroenterology? In all their assorted
prayers, did Catholics have one for Crohn’s-sufferers?
Does Holy Water have the same effect as
Gas-X? Can I make Holy
Water by simply praying while holding
a bottle of Aquafina? At the very
least, some of that ceremonial incense would have come in handy.
Yes, it’s true that I could have excused myself to
visit my
freshly-scrubbed, lilac-smelling loo. But
a Hindenburg-sized explosion is rather hard to
muffle in a studio
apartment the size of a large postage stamp — the acoustics in this
space are
great, but I prefer to keep my a capella talents hidden.
And so the conversation and cooking
continued, though I suspect that my contorted face and the increased
awkwardness of my social skills gave an indication that I was feeling
as
bloated as a Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade balloon.
Eventually, we ate.
And it was good. And I
thought: This is gonna force everything out, right in
the middle of the movie, if not during the drive to the theater.
I don’t remember what we talked about.
As we finished the meal, it happened. The countdown began, the bomb was about to go
off. “Discreet” and “sprint” are not
words that typically go together, but I like to think — hope — that my
sudden
and rapid departure was not without its own subtlety, grace, and charm.
The next several (read: many) minutes passed as you would
expect, and are none of your business.
When I emerged, thoroughly drained,
she had already cleared
the table and put all the leftovers in the refrigerator.
There are fewer indignities more profound to
the young chap who fancies himself as something of a Sensitive Modern
Man than
the sight of a woman doing the chores of Old-Fashioned Domesticity,
while he,
like a chauvinistic Neanderthal, does nothing. Way to go, jackass, you made her
do all the cleaning!
Still, I was glad to have spared her a
concert, and I presumed
there would be no encores.
Off we went. The
closest parking spot was a block away from the theater, and the looming
starting time necessitated a quick walk. Cue
the churning.
The line stretched out the door, and
we came to an abrupt
stop as we joined the queue. Well, sort
of: The roiling continued, more furious than before.
Objects in motion. . . .
And so, after we got our tickets, I
beat a hasty retreat to
the men’s room, where I discovered that rarest of sights: a long line. Women’s bathrooms, of course, are notorious
for their never-ending rows of humanity, which frequently challenge Disneyland
attractions for their length and the complexity of their winding forms. Men, however, pride themselves on avoiding
public commodes, or at least minimizing their time within.
Here, however, was an altogether social —
and, apparently, well-hydrated — collection of males.
Freaks. My gut grumbled
at them, and I clenched every muscle
in my body to
prevent myself from overshadowing the film as the evening’s
entertainment.
Several hours later, I finally emerged. “Long
line,” I said
lamely as we took our seats. She smiled,
but I could tell any hopes I may have had for another date were already
pretty
much flushed away.
Thankfully, we hadn’t missed the previews, which would
really have been a bummer. |
