Yesterday evening, my family and I attended my cousin's wedding in Richmond. The ceremony was wonderful and the reception was simply amazing. We had a blast. I'm truly happy for the newly married couple and I'm sure that they will enjoy a lifetime of good fortune, health and blessings from the Lord.
Weddings are joyous occasions which bring people together to share in the happiness of the newly weds. We got to see relatives that we usually don't see on a regular basis, and to say that I enjoyed that would be somewhat of an understatement.
Driving home late into the night, with a car full of sleeping family members, my mind drifted back to the early days of my own wedding and the months before.
It occurred to me that you truly don't know a person until you quietly utter the words, "I do". Well, that's not exactly true, but it should be noted that when people are trying to land a lifelong mate, other half, better half, etc., they are on their absolute best behavior at all times. Heck, I had known my wife for almost two years before I could actually verify that she did on occasion take a poop. "What do you mean she doesn't go number two?" my best friend asked, confused.
"I mean, I have been dating the woman for almost two years and there's not one shred of evidence to support any rational belief that she takes a dump!" I answered, while looking at my friend who was now grinning like a possum.
"Well, you're getting married in a few days. Trust me, she poops. She's still trying to impress you, and maybe she thinks you'll cut and run if she wrecks your bathroom. But after you're married it'll be open season on the old porcelain crapper. You just wait, you'll see."
He did have a point. He also had three years of marriage under his belt, so I surmised that he knew very well what he was talking about. It also occurred to me that I too, was somewhat reserved around my wife before we were married. I remember one incident specifically that is still carved into my memory banks that will likely be there until I die.
Kristi and I had enjoyed a fine meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant, when she suddenly had the bright idea that the night was young and we should see a movie. Immediately, the red flags of caution begin to fly inside my head. I love Mexican food, but it doesn't love me, in fact it hates my guts. Literally. That particular type of food has sent me racing like Dale Earnhardt across town, blowing red lights, swerving around slower traffic and cursing under my breath, all while standing up driving and squeezing for all I'm worth. That particular occasion was different. It was different in that there was no way that I would ever let on to her that I could possibly mess my pants in the movie theater.
"Sure, that sounds like a great idea! I'd love to see a movie," I lied, with little beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead as I steered the car out of the restaurant parking lot. I began to wonder if the bathrooms at the cinema were clean and if I should have snagged a few napkins from our table since the teenagers employed at the theater couldn't be trusted to keep a fresh supply of toilet paper in each bathroom stall.
We arrived at the cinema, paid for our tickets, and I excused myself before sheepishly entering the restroom. Apparently, I had gone into the wrong room, as the one I was standing in more closely resembled Grand Central Station than a movie theater bathroom. There was a line to the lone urinal in the corner and I could clearly see the shoes and ankles of a poor soul who was perched atop the toilet, which was surrounded by a partition which apparently also served as a local telephone directory. Oh well, the place will clear out soon and I would try again in a few minutes, I thought.
After the opening credits began to roll, I once again excused my self and raced to the men's room. To my amazement, the place was still packed with people and the same shoes and ankles STILL occupied the toilet stall. "Damn, is that guy dead in there?" I thought. I loitered for a few more minutes and once again returned to my seat beside Kristi.
"Are you OK?" she whispered.
"Yeah sure, why do you ask?" I answered, barely audible. My answer was barely audible not because I was trying to be quiet, but because if I allowed to much air to escape from my lungs at once, surely I would loose my grip and all would be lost.
"Your face is blood red and you're sweating profusely."
"Nonsense, I'm fine. Watch the movie," I said, while once again standing and bolting for the men's room. By that time the other patrons had begun staring at me in wonderment obviously curious as to why I found it necessary to keep racing in and out of the theater. Once again, I was greeted by a room full of other men and as usual, the SAME guy was still on the pot. In desperation, I knocked gently on the stall door.
"Hey buddy, you ok in there?" I asked.
"You talking to me?" he answered, with his voice echoing off the tiled walls.
"Yeah, how much longer are you going to be?" I replied, amazed that I was having a conversation with a stranger on the toilet in a movie theater bathroom.
"It's gonna be a while. I'm plugged up. Ate at that Mexican restaurant down the road. You ever been there?"
I didn't answer and was dumbfounded that the food had the opposite effect on the poor soul in the stall, but I did notice that he and I were then the only men in the room at the time. Briefly, I considered the possibility of using the trashcan, or perhaps the urinal, but thought better of it. I decided that pooping my pants with my future wife in tow would be less embarrassing that being caught crapping in a urinal, but not by much.
Finally in sheer agony and panic, I grabbed my wife and ushered her outside and laid it on the line. "We've got to go! I'm dying here! I've got to go to the bathroom something terrible and there's a constipated guy in the men's room who's been sitting there for over an hour. We've got to double time it or it's going to get BAD!" I barked as we raced to my car.
I did make it home in time, and thankfully there were no police officers nearby when I ran through several red lights and passed slower cars at a very high rate of speed. Kristi laughed uncontrollably during the whole ride to my house. For a fleeting moment, I rethought our engagement. Who want's a wife that takes pleasure at my pain. There was nothing funny about what had transpired. It was her fault anyway. If she hadn't wanted to see a movie, I could have made it home with plenty of time to spare. Oh well, I forgave her and married her anyway.
Just as my friend said, my wife sure enough does have bowel movements, she was just super sneaky about it during the 'good impression days'. Over the last fifteen plus years, we've thrown caution to the wind and have become very comfortable around each other. It's much easier now, she married me, and I married her. No need to impress. But occasionally, she still delights in my misfortune. Oh, the joys of Holy Matrimony. Finally, I've often wondered what happened to that poor, plugged up soul in the theater bathroom. Maybe the next time I'm out that way, I'll swing by and check to see if he's still there. I'll be sure not to eat Mexican food before, just in case he is.
