Sir and I haven't really been two for the ol' keepin' track of time; the day we got married, sure we mark it with a clinked glass (or four), but other'n that, we pretty much let the time go by. So as I'm watching the titillating panorama on my television of Comcast's lovely urgent message telling me I need to order yet another stupid cable box thingy add-on doo-bobber (I'm super tech-savvy, yo), I'm pondering those dates that I DO care about. Ok, so on some level, the day I met Sir is kind of special, and so is the day he proposed (with a Chiquita sticker on my forehead whilst I put away groceries), but how about the days I met some of my favorite people?
My old buddy from college and I met one steamy August afternoon the Saturday before school officially started in all its glorious glory (really, I can't say "fall" because it was still SUMMER, guys; that really traumatized me to have my beautiful freedom cut off so I could go back to wearing sweaters prematurely just because the back-to-school sales SAID that's what you WEAR when you go back to school. And they should know.). Her mom was there, a really superb lady that I am very fond of despite really only being around her a handful of times, but she is just such a charming and unique individual that I've just adopted her as someone I'm gonna keep around; she was very welcoming. And my roommate? Very poised but nervous. Reserved, I should say. She wasn't (still isn't) one for the small talk, which is slightly awkward these days because I am ALL ABOUT THE SMALL TALK. It's my job. Anyway, a few weeks went by where I'd go home on the weekends, and she and I'd do our own thing and be polite to each other and giggle a little because we're girls, but share our deepest, darkest secrets? No.
That all changed one day in the women's bathroom. I walked in, took a stall, started doing my thing, and I heard someone enter the bathroom. Shit, I remember thinking. I'm super shy about doing my business, and that was one of the biggest causes of constipation. You just cannot be shy about it when you've got about 20 other females using the same three stalls, but I hadn't learned that yet. Of course that was my roommate's feet under the stall. Of course she went to the stall right next to me. Of course I farted. Loud. In mortification, I stared at the wall separating us, and then I heard a snicker on the other side. I was so surprised, I snickered back. Then she snickered some more. Then I snickered again. Before we knew it, we were howling in laughter.
When we emerged from the stalls, our sides aching, we grinned at one another. A friendship for life had been forged from the smelly furnace of the bathroom stall.