As promised, enough with the mushy stuff and on to the embarrassing tales of dating war.
Much to my total mortification, Wine Guy has officially been introduced to my most dangerous weapon --- the stink bomb. Yes, we all know that pivotal moment in a relationship when that first fart slips out. Maybe it's while you're sleeping and it wakes you both up. Or perhaps it sneaks out when he makes you laugh unexpectedly. All embarrassing -- but cute embarrassing. No, I was not so lucky. This was a particularly nasty sneak attack of lactose intolerance brought on by an excessively cheesy piece of pizza.
I could feel my stomach filling with air by the time we were home and settling in for the night. (That's what I like to call it "I've got air." It sounds so much nicer, doesn't it?) I immediately started to panic. What do I do? I'd already let it slip that I have some lactose "issues" so it wouldn't come as a complete surprise. But I couldn't think of a way to say it. So I instead I snuck off to the bathroom every 1/2 hour or so to quietly let it out.As bedtime approached, the situation became dire. I could tell my "air" was not of the rose-smelling variety and, once I fell asleep, all bets were off. I had to tell him.
I sort of backed into it..."remember when I mentioned I had lactose intolerance?" That was all I needed to say to introduce the concept that we might be in for a rough night. I let it be known that I was embarrassed and prepared for total mortification. It brought back the days when I lived with Only Child and first developed this lactose intolerance (too many late-night trips to Coldstone, I fear). When it hit, it hit hard and I would pretty much stink him out of the bedroom. But that was someone I was with for six years, and it was pretty damn funny to terrorize him. My relationship with Wine Guy? We haven't even reached the critical three month mark yet (you know, when most relationships go bust).
When I let him know how concerned I was over the whole thing, he tried to reassure me. "It's OK, honey. Honestly, I have pretty bad gas too tonight. so we'll both be really stinky." Maybe he was just trying to make me feel better. Who cares. It worked. Now I could just blame it on him and we would both be happy. Of course, I had to correct him. "Air. I don't have gas, I have air."
Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night. And when I did sleep, I was burdened with fitful, scary dreams, perhaps caused by my subconscious fighting my large intestine. This led to my next scene of mortification - punching, kicking, talking in my sleep. Since I was a kid, I've been teased for the things I do in my sleep. There were even some mean girls who tape recorded me at a slumber party and played it back the next morning to a round of giggles. I cried.
So imagine a stink chamber of a bedroom and a fitful Trooper thrashing about in the bed, at one point taking swings at the mattress and waking up to find Wine Guy holding my arms and trying to soothe me. (He got off easy. I have inadvertently given a guy a black eye before).
By the time morning came, the room smelled like a sulphur pit, Wine Guy had stories to tell, and I was just plain tired. But as we rehashed the Night of Terror together (he insists he contributed to at least half of that stench, God I hope he's right), I realized I was not all that embarrassed. It felt more like a survivor story, our first battle together. Granted, I was the enemy as well in this scenario. But we won nevertheless.
But let's just say that Wine Guy is VERY careful about what he feeds me from now on.