Adventures in Dating: Helen – Part XV

Urination and all that cannot be undone

As I tell my tales, I imagine myself walking through the molasses swamp in the game called Candy Land. It seems as if I keep getting deeper and deeper, going further toward danger, but instead of turning around and running the other way, as I should, I just keep trudging forward. So, instead of learning my lesson on dating people that I am familiar with, I continued on with the cycle.

This time, as I took a break in the molasses swamp, I decided to take a chance with an old friend. One that I never should have ever dated because I can never have a friendship with him again. Too much was admitted. Too much was told. Things will never be undone. Doorsteps cannot be un-peed on. Yes, I will explain this absurdity in a moment, but be patient. I have to give you the entire story before I can deliver the goods.

It began in high school, when Cameron and I were just friends. Although Cameron was tall, dark and handsome, I really had no interest in dating him because he was a year younger than me. Also, I was trying to stick to my “plan” of staying single for college. Our friendship grew through the years in that he was my listening ear for my dating disasters and I was his. We actually made a date to go out once during my freshmen year in college (while I was on a break with my first love), but he ended up canceling and going out with another girl who lived back home. The date went so well that she ended up getting pregnant with his child. (Do you understand what I am implying?)

Eventually, he ended up marrying the girl out of feelings of obligation. Again another wedding that I attended that I knew would end in divorce. After the wedding and the birth of their adorable baby girl, I was asked to be the godmother of their daughter. A part of me knew that I should say no and I that I may be headed down a path that wasn’t safe, but how could I say no? It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where Elaine says no after being asked to be godmother to a friend’s baby. It would ruin our friendship if I had said no, as it had in the Seinfeld episode for poor Elaine. So, I said yes, and knew with every fiber of my being that I shouldn’t have.

I stood with quivering knees on the altar of our church as I swore that I would be the best godmother in the world to that little girl, but only half believing it. I imagined a bolt of lightning striking me down as the voice of God came down and said (imagine a loud, booming voice like Charleston Heston’s), “What are you doing, Helen? I know that you don’t really want to be godmother to this baby!” But, as I waited for it, it never happened and before I knew it, the baptism was over. For years, I sent presents to my goddaughter, but never on time and I usually sent them through my mom, who did their hair. Oh yes, my mom does hair. Have I mentioned that yet? So, if you are reading this book and you are from my area, you have probably already heard most of this, as my news has been broadcasted to the public over many years through my mother.

So, I was a crappy godmother. About a year ago, the call came that I knew would eventually come. Cameron called me and said that he and his wife were getting a divorce. He was trying to relate to me, saying that we had commonalities in our lives even more now that our spouses had left. He had two daughters now (yes, they had another a couple years back) and his wife had left him for a dentist that she worked for. Cameron thanked me and said how grateful he was that he had a friend like me, and on and on the words began to spin. We spoke at least once a week then, and after a month, he asked to come and see me. I hesitated when he asked because I have always known that he was in love with me. Does that sound big-headed? Yes, I know it does. But, it is simply the truth. I didn’t know how to deal with this, like the baptism. Should I let him visit and see what happens (as we were both now single) or should I go with my gut and say no?

I know that you are shaking your head right now, while you read this. You are thinking, “I know what she did. She invited him over and started a relationship with him”. No? You weren’t thinking that? Oh, okay then. I wish I could tell you that I hadn’t invited him over, but I did. That day, as my son took his nap and he visited with me in the kitchen, he bent his head down and kissed me. Once again, I didn’t know what to do and really didn’t feel the fireworks that I thought I might feel.

Instead of stopping it right there, you guessed it, Cameron continued to visit over the course of a month. We laughed together and overall had a good time. I could see possibilities with him because we knew each other so well and because we both had kids, he lived in my hometown and the list goes on. Then, it happened. Oh yes. It happened.

My son and I (who was only one at the time) had our life all set. We had our routine and our things that we liked to do. On Fridays in the summer, we would walk to our cute little downtown area that was only a couple blocks away from our apartment. Every Friday night, they had free concerts in our town square; along with fun things like a coffee shop, an ice cream shop, hardware store, you name it, the town has it.
On that particular Friday, the sun was shining and the day had gone perfectly. My son and I headed down to the local Italian restaurant, where they knew us by name. I hadn’t heard from Cameron that day, but didn’t care because I am the type of woman that hates the phone anyway, and who doesn’t sit around waiting for a man to call me for a date. As the waiter brought us our food, my phone rang. On the other end was Cameron’s voice, sounding desperate and asking where I was. He proceeded to tell me about his day and ran down a laundry list of things that had gone wrong.

He said, “Well, first the girls were rowdy and fighting all day long. My phone broke, so I had to take it into the store to get it fixed. My brother called and said that he needed help with something. I was in a hurry to get up here to visit you today, I came by here and you didn’t answer your door. I waited an hour at your door and banged on it the whole time. I had to go to the bathroom so bad that I wet my pants. My truck is running funny. I have a ton to do at home. Work just laid me off…” and he rattled on. But, I sat there, frozen in horror as I processed what he just dropped in the middle of his laundry list.

“You did what?!” I asked, trying not to act so shocked, but doing a horrible job of pretending that I wasn’t disgusted, while I shoved another bite of spaghetti into my son‘s mouth. He began to repeat the list again, but I gently asked, “No, you did what standing on my doorstep? You peed your pants?”

With this, heads turned and people began to look. So I crouched down in my chair further and listened fervently, hoping for a great explanation like he had kidney problems. Or, someone had just run up and tried to mug him and he peed his pants because they punched him in the stomach. I was just looking for a better explanation what he had given me.

“Yes,” he said. “I couldn’t wait for you anymore. I stood there for about an hour and had to go to the bathroom so bad that I peed my pants. Luckily, I had a change of clothes in the car”.

Now, for starters, ladies and gentlemen, I am not trying to be a snob. But, please take into consideration that this is a grown man who could have easily run to a gas station or a nearby restaurant to use the bathroom. Instead, he chose to WET HIS PANTS ON MY FRONT DOORSTEP!

It was all downhill after that. When we got back to my apartment, he didn’t even want to shower. I am sorry, but if I had urinated all over myself, I would want to shower. But nope, when asked, he declined and acted as if nothing in the world had happened and that peeing your pants at the age of 30 was a normal, everyday thing. I couldn’t bare to even look at him anymore without thinking of urination. Hell, I couldn’t look at my happy little doormat that said, “Welcome, friends!” the same again, either. Out, it had to go that night, in the garbage with another little piece of my past. Oh why, oh why, oh why please tell me did I even attempt this? Someone please place those little orange triangles around me and stick a hazard sign on my butt, so no one will even approach me to ask me out on a date. We all know how it will end. Save me the time, grief, effort, heart ache, energy and money. Please.

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