So this afternoon I had my first ever appointment with a chiropractor to hopefully get some answers about the nearly year long pain in my side that no one on earth seems to be able to figure out. (I did get some answers, potentially, but the jury is still out until my follow up next week.)
I got to the area early and had about 45 minutes to kill so I thought I’d pop into Starbucks, grab a nice Vanilla Spice Latte (skinny, of course) and read one of the five books I’m marathoning through at the moment. As I went to leave, a couple of women came in with a pram each (stroller, for you Americans), making it difficult to get by and make my exit. As I waited, another guy was waiting as well. He was attractive, suited and clutching a copy of Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms” which is only one of my favourite books ever. He was like a walking, talking “I’m in business but I’m really an intellectual at heart” cliche. You know the type, right?
Anyhow. So we’re standing there. He makes eye contact and smiles. I smile back because I’m, you know, polite and stuff. He shrugs at the two women who are awkwardly jockeying for space up the aisle and into the shop. “We could be here a while,” he grinned. He had lovely eyes, nice teeth and his hair was well kept (sorry, N). I giggled awkwardly and started to say something flirtatious back when I then proceeded to knock over both a sign about 6 and a half feet tall as well as a display full of bags of Starbucks coffee beans (thank GOD there were no mugs on that display). Oh yes. The entire store stopped and looked at me and Mr I Read Hemingway looked horrified. I came out with some sort of a sound which was a cross between an “oops” and an “erps” and shuffled out quickly before anyone could throw a muffin at me.
That’s why I shouldn’t be allowed to flirt, ever ever ever again. People might die.
Oh but it doesn’t end there. If only it did, Readers, why then life would be so much more balanced and fair.
I sought refuge in a nearby bookstore thinking no one would think to find me there. The shop was quiet and there were only one or two other people milling about. I stood contemplating the new releases and trying to look thoughtful rather than burst into tears. The mix of the embarrassment, coffee and anxiety about my impending back-breaking appointment was too much. The pressure built up in my tummy, begging for release.
“No,” I thought to myself. “No. I don’t care how bad it is, you will hold it until you find a bathroom. Or until you’re in a deserted alleyway. Either works. You will not stoop to an even lower level of shame than the one you’re already at. Get it together.”
In the midst of my inner dialogue (aka chastisement) I dropped my shopping bag.
You can guess what happened next, as I bent over to pick it up. Without even trying, I let out an enormous… well… toot, as my Memom calls them (because even ruder than actually farting is saying the word). It was LOUD. And LONG. Not a delicate puff of air… nope. That one could have won contests. I’m batting a thousand here.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I turned around to once again run away in shame from yet another innocent place of business when I saw one of the shop assistants setting up a table full of discount Christmas stuff RIGHT BEHIND ME. Not across the store behind me but WITHIN ARM’S REACH.
And for the second time today, someone looked at me in sheer horror.
I disgust even myself… so I’m just going to go downstairs, have a drink and will it all away.
Who wants to take bets I’ll walk in and wee all over the nice wooden floors?