Worst Date

In November 2003 Wonder Boy and I ventured out to the mall to buy a wedding gift for friends and had plans to grab dinner afterwards. About halfway into our drive, I was writhing in pain in my seat, doubled over with sever cramps. Wonder Boy looked over and saw me pale and white knuckling the Oh Shit handle of his car.

“Can you stop somewhere please?” I asked.

He pulled over to a lovely gas station called Swifty.  The kind that has a bathroom in an outside cement stall. Only slightly more modern than a outhouse. I dashed in and had a lot of what I’m going to refer to as Personal Time.

After about 10 to 15 minutes, Wonder Boy knocked on the door to check on me. “Go away!” I yelled. Repeat that interaction 10 minutes later. And again. Maybe even again?

Finally I came out and said I needed to go home. As Wonder Boy pulled into my apartment complex driveway, he leaned over and said, “Pretty romantic seventh date, huh?” Rather than be embarrassed about what was happening to me, I just looked at him and said,”You’ve been counting our dates?!?!”

After he left and I was back in my apartment, I continued to have Personal Time. So much Personal Time, in fact, that I decided I need to see a doctor. (No need for specifics.) I called my mom but she wasn’t home. I tried a few other people and then decided to call Wonder Boy, a nurse, and ask him to come back and take me to the hospital. The romantic evening couldn’t get any worse so why not?

At that point in time, Wonder Boy was still new to town and was relying on me to direct him to a hospital. The only one I was confident about finding was the most urban of the bunch and had a colorful waiting room that included people high on drugs and alcohol, people handcuffed to chairs and chaos everywhere.

After a visit with a doctor WEARING A TOP GUN JUMPSUIT, we were sent home with directions on how to take care of my Personal Time issues.

And that is my worst date ever.