3. Master of Courtship
Jill of All Trades
Master of Some Stuff, Maybe
A blook written on an iPhone.
" The Time I Peed Down My Leg."
Technology has truly changed the way people engage in courtship. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, that there are no more love letters being passed around in class and no more young men knocking on that special someone's door asking their parents if they could speak to Allison or Jennifer. No. Today courters resort to texting, FB, and direct messages on Twitter to get that special someone's attention.
Prior to technology's assistance, I had engaged in courtship one or two times. I'm not saying I'm a pro, but I've got a decent track record if you don’t include that time I peed down my leg.
But Jill, what does peeing in your pants have to do with dating?
Let's just say, that in college, there was a guy from Malibu who brought out the worst of my courtshipping abilities. Any time spent with him defied any previous embarrassing moments in my life and had me questioning potential speech impediments and/or minor retardations.
It all started at orientation when my period and I introduced ourselves to a room full of jocks. It was a typical movie moment—remember, when the crowd parts and there he/she is? Well there he was with the beach blond hair, those blue eyes and that California smile. His name was Brad (not Pitt).
I’ve seen enough movies to know that if you want to get someone’s attention, you get your friend to do all the work. I turned to my roommate and dear friend Meredith (who had, at the time, failed to mention my Playtex malfunction) and asked her to befriend Brad’s teammates because I was a coward. Besides, Meredith was a babe. While I'd have to do a Team USA floor-routine and land in the splits in a G-string, all she'd have to do was stand next to one of them and check her iPhone.
She did. And before I knew it Meredith was surrounded by the entire team.
Thanks to Meredith, that weekend we were at our first baseball party. People were doing keg stands, dancing, drinking and contracting mono at the beer pong table. It was blissful. It was also the hottest day of the year.
I concocted a plan and positioned myself in the center of the dance floor so as to increase my chances of an "accidental bump-in." As if I wasn't already hot, now I was on f%&^*$* fire. It was like this: picture being in the Sahara Desert. Now picture yourself digging a hole straight to the center of the earth's inner core.
Now dance there.
To make matters worse, my careful positioning had me surrounded by a slew of horny college folk who would occasionally grind up on my leg, forcing me to limbo my way out of a threesome. Despite all the heat and all the crunking, I tried to spend as much time as I could on that dance floor. But once I started to feel beads of moisture forming in hard to reach places, I knew it was time to abandon my post and freshen up. I had to look presentable, after all. I got to the bathroom and assessed my situation. I looked okay, no signs of sweat. I quietly applauded myself for choosing to wear black.
You know, I always thought I'd spend my first college party in the bathroom hugging a toilet. In reality, I still spent most of my time in the bathroom, albeit I was wiping the sweat from between my boobs.
Just as I was giving up on my "big meet cute", I finally got the introduction I was waiting for. There he was, Brad AKA Malibu Ken.
Malibu Ken with turquoise Tote.
Courtesy of Jill's homemade photoshoot.
Unfortunately I was in no way a complimenting Malibu Barbie, because when he walked in I was twisted sideways with one leg in the air under a hand dryer, blowing hot air down my pants.
"Hey," he said.
I immediately stopped what I was doing and buttoned up my jeans. We laughed, but I don't think it was in a "that was a good ice breaker" kind of way. I just prayed that he couldn't see the toilet paper lodged under my armpit.
"You're Jill," he cooed.
I smiled awkwardly. A wave of various sensations ran through me: happiness, excitement, sadness, diarrhea… and extreme anxiety. Suddenly, I became very aware of my elbows.
"So, how are you?" he continued.
"Nothing much!" I retorted.
F$%*. That wasn't right. But Malibu (I'm calling him that now) just smiled politely, waiting for something else to be said.
Typically in a normal human conversation, words are spoken. In this instance, neither of us spoke. Malibu was probably counting sheep and I was too busy convincing myself that my mouth had disappeared. I would have touched my face to double check, but my body was frozen like a popsicle.
We continued to stand there for what seemed like five days plus a long weekend. Why was he just standing there? Had time literally stood still? Eventually I somehow managed to lift my finger and point it behind me. In doing so, I side-stepped my way into the bathroom stall. I made sure to avoid any and all eye contact whilst locking the door behind me.
A couple of minutes later, the party was shut down. I came out of the bathroom 45 minutes after that.
For some reason, Malibu asked his teammate Big Shawn to ask Meredith to tell me that he was going to this bar next weekend, and he was wondering if I was going. Unless he was wondering for the sake of avoiding me, I was back in the game. I told Meredith to tell Big Shawn to tell Malibu that I would be there, and that I would be more ready to say more words.
The day before the big event, I had gone shopping with Meredith. Somehow she had convinced me that I was going to "do it" with Brad tomorrow. The thought alone seemed implausible. But she advised me to be safe rather than sorry, and then coerced me into buying my first pair of mesh underwear from Victoria's Secret.
When we got back to our dorm room, there was a message waiting for me from a one: baseballking3246 (abhorrently cheesy AIM screen names like Mysticalprincessl13 was common at the time--mine was takeitlikealoser).
Thebaseballking3246: “U comin 2 Tiki Rob's?”
"Oh my god Meredith, you were right. We're gonna do it!” I screamed.
Thebaseballking3246 is typing.
“He’s typing!” I screamed again.
“Yeah yeah, just don’t twist your socks in a pretzel.” Meredith always had a way with words.
My heart was pounding... There it was again: the full on anxiety, panic (with a possibility of regurgitation), attack. The only difference was this time, I was going to play is c-o-o-l.
Thebaseballking3246: “I g2g. See you tom.”
Oh my goodness! What a comic, he's calling me Tom. Quick, say something back.
takeitlikealoser: “Cool. See you later, Cathy.”
(thebaseballking3246 has signed off)
"So what did you say?" Meredith said as she looked over my shoulder.
To this day, I still think about the demented thought process that had compelled me to call Brad, Cathy.
I mean, I had never previously held the abbreviation of the word 'tomorrow' to mean anything other than an abbreviation of the word 'tomorrow'. I didn't even HAVE a friend named Tom at the time, so I wasn't entirely sure how my brain made me do what I did. I just don't know.
Jill's friend Tom, whom she later met.
Up until that point I've only had mere brushes of intimacy with the opposite sex.
The closest I had ever been to a, you know, was in third grade when my friend Andrew was pantsed during a game of duck duck goose. Some sh$%%& little kid sitting next to me thought it would be funny to pull little Andrew's pants right down. When I turned to see what all the fuss was about, Andrew's goose was squarely in my face.
I still couldn't believe there was a possibility of doing anything with Brad that night. We were still in the beginning phase of courtship. You know, the phase where you act like a stupid person.
Thanks to Meredith, however, I entered Tiki Rob's Cantina Club with a sense of confidence. During her pep talk, somewhere between "taking charge" and "we're all gonna die anyway," she mentioned that the lacrosse team had their eye on Malibu. And with that, something raged inside me like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
The women's lacrosse team was a special breed. They were confident, competitive and promiscuous. I was neither of these things. But what I did know was that I had hot pink underwear on, and my purse matched my shirt. Tonight I was unstoppable.
I spotted Brad immediately. I walked right up to him and started a conversation. Like a real one.
Twenty minutes later, and 6 tequila shots down, Brad and I were having a great time. We danced to Soldier Boy together, and we hugged because we both knew all the moves. But after the dance, I realized I really had to go to the bathroom. Brad tried to say something to me, but at that point my ears were ringing so badly-- not from the music-- but from the fact that my bladder had expanded to the size of a bagpipe and I needed to get to a bathroom. Fast.
I just looked at him with despair in my eyes, and dashed off elegantly without saying a word. Like Cinderella at the ball.
I ran upstairs as fast as my skort could take me, but the hustle was useless because the line to the women's bathroom was as long as the line to get into the club (which wrapped around the building). At that point, I was seeing stars so I tried to push my way through to the front of the line or else sh%$ was going down right there and then.
I failed to realize that in Richmond, there were a lot of big, mean girls. Not the kind that would hate on your outfit, but the kind that would punch you in the throat.
As I snuck my way toward the front of the line, I was caught in the act. Of course, I tried to be diplomatic about the whole thing. I said I had to pee, and there were lacrosse girls chasing my man.
Unfortunately, I never got to use the ladies bathroom that night. No one was punched in the throat, but I will say there was a confrontation of sorts. When I was booted to the back of the line I gave some girl the finger who then proceeded to jump me, upon which we were both kicked out of Tiki Rob's Cantina Club. I thought I had hit rock bottom that night, but then I fell asleep in my driveway.
Mesh underwear. Not the acutal pair though.
Obviously, nothing had happened with Brad after the party.
I did, however, have breakfast with him and a few other baseball team members the next morning. I was so hungover, I don't even remember putting my shorts on. But breakfast was great: I told the story about my cat fight, we had a laugh, I was the talk of the table.
As we were all leaving the dining hall, I stopped ahead of the crowd to pick up an extra pack of Fruit Loops (you know, for the road). Suddenly, a pair of hands came up behind me and started tickling me. It was Brad. I'm not usually the ticklish type, but perhaps the hangover increased my sensitivity, because I started laughing. A lot. I wanted to say stop!, but this was the closest Brad and I had ever been and I didn't want it to end. But the laughter... oh the laughter... it became oh so uncontrollable. And before I could finally bring myself to say stop!....... it happened.
I peed down my leg.
It was interesting how quickly everything made its way down the shorts and to my shoe, but then I remembered: I was still wearing the mesh underwear. Of course there was no way the mesh could absorb anything-- it went straight through just like rain down a gutter. Instead of wiping front to back I was wiping from ankle up.
Later that day, Brad and a lacrosse girl started dating. I think they're married now. I on the other hand still keep those mesh panties in my drawer, if only to remind me to change my underwear every day.
Until next time Master Readers,