Because today I’m going to tell you a fascinating story. FASCINATING. As in, you just might throw up! Maybe not even from the content as much as from the sheer LENGTH! This post causes eye strain!
Anyway. Anyone—ANYONE—who has met me in person has heard this story. As far as requested stories from go, it ranks right up there in popularity with “The Story of My Very First And Yet Extremely Bungled Visit to the Gynecologist” and “The Story of the Time I Rescued Someone’s Pet Bird from the Woods with My Head.” The latter of those two stories I actually did write down, and if you want to read it, you can find it here. I swear on my life and Hambone's that it is 100 percent true. And people, I do NOT mess around swearing on Hambone's life.
However, as much as you would no doubt love to hear the story of my first gynecologist visit, I don’t know if I can ever bring myself to do it here. On one hand, there is the fact that Dave told my very personal gynecologist story to his former boss over a beer a few years back, which technically I was okay with as long as I never saw him again as long as I lived. However, on the other hand, my father-in-law, who I adore, reads this website and I don’t know exactly how I would be able to look him in the eye ever again knowing he has read the word “speculum” and then all about how it was used on me in an extremely embarrassing and amateur way.
This past weekend I attended my church’s annual Ladies Retreat, and during one of the sessions, to illustrate a point that I now cannot remember for the life of me, the speaker told the story of her most humiliating moment. After the session, we broke off into assigned small groups for discussion, and the icebreaker question designed to get us all talking was, “What was YOUR most humiliating moment? Share it with these here strangers you have NEVER MET BEFORE.” I told this story to my group, and for the rest of the weekend, I was approached constantly by people who either didn’t believe it or who wanted me to repeat it so someone else could hear it or by people who wanted to know if it was okay if they went home and repeated it to someone else who could not possibly believe it.
Our honeymoon lasted for two weeks back in October of 2003; we spent the first 11 days at an enormous all-inclusive where we could come and go as we pleased, eating and drinking whatever and whenever we saw fit. For Dave, eating and drinking as he saw fit was having a pina colada in each hand no matter where he was going or what he was doing, and that includes walking from the beach to the public bathroom at 9:45am. Everything we wanted to do could be arranged from the hotel and that was perfect for us. But it was MEXICO and even though we were not in some completely rural area of Mexico, we were still subject to the same kinds of minor Mexican disasters that befall thousands of tourists each year, and by minor Mexican disasters OF COURSE I mean the rumbling bowels of watery torture, for which our witty euphemism was “talking to Pedro.”
We never got it terribly bad, in fact, it was better classified as inconvenient. After every meal we had a span of around 10 to 15 minutes with which to get to our room to start arguing about who got to talk to Pedro first. Then, because we were newlyweds who hadn’t lived together, much less HEARD THE OTHER ONE USE THE BATHROOM, we devised a system that had to be enacted before the bathroom door was locked so as to muffle any kind of sound. Water was turned on full blast, televisions were cranked up to a high volume and the home team, who wasn’t up to bat until the bottom of the inning, was banished to the far side of the room to squirm in discomfort.
The plan worked throughout our vacation. Our last three nights in Mexico were spent at a beautiful boutique hotel on the island of Isla Mujeres, where we clearly did not fit in as we were really pushing it to be able to afford three whole nights there. Our last night in Mexico, the hotel put together a lovely dinner for us: a table for two in the sand at the edge of the ocean. The pathway through the sand to our table was strewn with flower petals, the table was lit with candlelight and our own personal waiter served us divine lobster and steak and we shared wine and an entire bottle of champagne. It was literally like something straight out of a movie.
The next morning I was awoken jointly by the risen sun and my bladder around 6:30. I will now casually mention that I was not wearing any clothing. The movement of me climbing out of the bed woke Dave up, and when I caught his eye, I knew immediately that something was not right. He was STARING at me, with an intensity that could have bored holes right through my body. And he looked absolutely terrified.
“What?” I asked him once, and then when he didn’t answer, I asked again in a panicky voice because he was CREEPING ME OUT. “Seriously! What is it? What?! TELL ME!” But he was unable to say anything. He just continued staring at me with this truly horrified expression on his face.
And then I looked down.
AND FOUND THAT THE LOWER HALF OF MY BODY WAS COVERED IN BROWN, SLIMY GOOP.
It was EVERYWHERE. It was caked down my legs, over my stomach, across my back. It was also coating my hands. We quickly discovered it smeared across Dave’s chest, and lingering as brown handprints and fingerprints all over our pillows.
And then Dave pulled back the blankets and there, where my rear end had lain in the bed all night long, was an ENORMOUS, GOOEY BROWN STAIN, which had been practically ground into the sheets by my backside.
It was beyond mortifying. I just stood there, and we stared at each other, completely paralyzed with fear. Dave later admitted that he was trying to recall if he had ever been taught the appropriate protocol for dealing with the first time your wife craps the bed. And I just stood there, buck naked, wide-eyed, with my hand covering my gaping mouth, HUMILIATED ON MY VERY ROMANTIC HONEYMOON, wondering if I would ever, EVER be able to erase that hideous scar of a moment from my memory: the moment where I realized I had taken an unconscious dump in our marriage bed.
And then, just when the world was clearly about to come crashing to an end under the weight of my disgrace… I REMEMBERED. I remembered the feeling of something uncomfortable under my back in the middle of the night. Something round and hard. And when I dug through the covers at the foot of the bed, I was beyond overjoyed to have found it.
I had slept on top of a liqueur-filled chocolate that had unknowingly rolled off my pillow and underneath the sheets.
I have never been so so happy in my entire life as I was when that evidence was recovered. Dave and I laughed like crazy idiots at the realization that I had hilariously slept on an exploding chocolate instead of pooped explosively all over some expensive hotel sheets and then SMEARED IT ACROSS HIS HAIRLESS CHEST WHILE SLEEPING! You have no idea what that kind of relief felt like. Unfortunately, Dave’s relief turned quickly to irritation when he realized that we had to get up because the bed was completely soiled beyond use.
Now, tell me, Internet! Have you ever heard of anything so awful, ever? Like, EVER? If you have, I want to hear it, even if the story is not about you. This week I would love nothing more than to immerse myself in your collective humiliation, for personal reasons. And I'll reward you by posting a real kicker for you later in the week. It is already written and EVERYTHING! Oooh, the suspense!