There are certain things in life for which I have rules.

Almost unbreakable rules.

It’s like a code.

But what I am specifically referring to here is bodily noises.

Now, please understand that this code is for me and me alone. I don’t judge those who abide by a different code. I mean, I have a sweet friend whom I love dearly and she will unabashedly let one rip whenever she gets the urge and I will laugh with the best of them when she does.

But see, the day I try to do that? I’d probably end up crapping my pants or something. And undoubtedly would start crying about it. But would be laughing the day after.

I hope, anyway.

My point is, however, that I am not into private things being made public.

To the extreme.

Like when I was first seriously dating someone we would talk on the phone for literally hours at a time. Now somewhere into maybe our second hour of discussing our hopes and dreams I would start to feel like I had to go to the bathroom. Nothing serious, just number one, but still, I wouldn’t utter a word to my boyfriend about it. I didn’t want to even say the words I and bathroom in the same sentence, for fear that would gross him out. And because I was afraid he could hear it, I wouldn’t sneakily try to go while still on the phone. And don’t even think about making up some excuse to get off the phone so I could get myself some sweet relief; I was too honest to lie and too happy to sit there in a dark room talking to him.

So I would stay on the phone, sometimes for even another whole hour, just in silent agony while holding my bladder and happy to hear just one more childhood memory all the while.

Now fast forward to Drew.

We were on maybe our third date. And this was a big one. Easter at my house, with my whole family–all one hundred of us. Okay, so all 20 of us, but we make enough noise to be a hundred. We shared a bench at the dinner table. The piano bench, actually, since we had run out of dining room chairs at around person number 12. I wore my hair in braids circling my head, St. Lucia, American Girl doll style.

The night was a hit.

He stayed late, long after the food had been eaten and the last of the cars had driven away. And there we were, still talking, avoiding the clock and pretending it was earlier than it was.

Until he said something.

Something awful.

He started that conversation, the one in which the tone immediately lets you know that whatever is happening is about to end.

I should probably go, he said slowly, I mean, I know I am holding in so much gas that my stomach is hurting like crazy and you must be too.

And I was just horrified.

How could such a perfect night end in a few words about gas of all things?

Not romantic.

I barely knew what to say, so I mumbled something about how I was feeling okay but I am sorry that his stomach was hurting.

And when I closed the door after him that night I decided to put that sentence out of my mind for the time being. After all, there was so much good about him, I didn’t want to let that one awkwardly spoken sentence define him.

But you better believe I’ve brought it up since.

And he still can’t come up with the reason for why he thought that statement was a good idea.