Just like exercising with my personal trainer, sometimes my favorite part of a date is when it’s over. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the man. The date could have been wonderful, stimulating, sexy. But once he’s left me, I sigh in relief, shoving off those uncomfortable shoes while in the backseat of the taxicab, airing my burning feet. It is then that the very unsexy discharge of clothing begins.
At my front door, I perform an awkward pee-pee dance in bare feet while trying to insert my key into that keyhole. It seems my key and keyhole have never met before, not quite finding each other in a dark hallway like a couple of teenagers with braces. I jiggle and finesse until the door bangs opens. I unceremoniously drop everything in a pile on the floor, including those heels, for the sprint to the toilet. I peel the suctioning ‘shapewear’ from my hips, my belly popping from the reveal, and then kick that confining garment across the bathroom, cursing that I will never wear them again. ‘Next time,’ I tell myself. ‘I will choose, what the Brits appropriately call, a buffet dress—waist-less and forgiving.’
I relax into a good long pee, one brought on with that last cup of hot peppermint tea at the end of the meal., while he and I looked into each other’s eyes, holding hands across the table.
I top off my sit on the throne with a release of gas caused by those Spanx, the carbonation from my vodka soda, and the chick peas and broccoli at dinner. The feeling is almost as satisfying as a good orgasm. I had stopped at the restroom before leaving the restaurant earlier, but unfortunately, my date very gentlemanly conceded to me using the one stall, unisex toilette before him. Meaning, I had to hold onto the flatulence until I was home—alone.
While still in the bathroom, I pull off the deep V, body-conscious dress that seductively exposed my décolletage—the one that kept my date from completing sentences—and rubbed the painful, semi-permanent indents on my body caused by the loathed underwear.
In my bedroom, I pop off my push-up bra, and a small explosion of breadcrumbs eject onto the floor like a deployed airbag. I notice a lone almond on the floor that must have fallen out of my bra—an almond from that small snack bag I ate in the cab on my way to the restaurant as a strategy to stave off hunger so I can have that vodka and soda, or a glass of champagne, as an aperitif without getting too tipsy too early in the game. Those same almonds were also supposed to help me from devouring the basket of freshly baked bread presented while I perused the menu. From the evidence of crumbs on the floor, that strategy needs to be re-evaluated.
I lift my heavy load of hair blow-dried off my hot, sweaty neck—because, you know, menopause—and gather it into a scrunchy, remove my makeup, and slather on some green face mask for ten minutes. I take an Advil because those stupid almonds did no good ‘lining my stomach’ after a vodka soda, glass of champagne, and half a bottle of wine.
I slip on a soft oversized T-shirt and a pair of my most unsexy granny-panties, and click on the AC to an Arctic temp of 67—because, you know, menopause. I slide into my bed—underneath all of the clothes I tried on before the date that may have been more comfortable, but didn’t choose—and recall the nice evening I had with my man. I also thank the lord that he didn’t come home with me as I spread eagle in my bed, all alone, and rip one more satisfying fart under the covers.