“I can’t be attracted to you if you pass gas,” he said on our second or third date.
What I love about that is how he said “if.” As if farting is not a normal human body function, one that every person has, like somehow I could avoid it– like the choice not to wear pink or to cut my hair short, or any of the other ridiculous conditions he laid out for my desirability.
I don’t know how many months we dated– too many after a stupid comment like that. File the entire relationship under “young and naive.” But I do know that I spent those months running out of the room, or intensely bloated, for fear of not being wanted.
And then it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, just as the sun was coming through the blinds, and we were both beginning to stir and wake– he let one rip.
“Honey,” I whispered hotly in his ear, “I don’t think I can be attracted to you anymore.”
Was he crossed off the list?
Yes, yes, he was.
And I got one step closer to not putting up with ManShit.