Love at First Sight, Lost at First Fart

Posted on 2025-04-03

Once upon a stomach gurgle…

No, let’s rewind.

Once upon a computer keyboard… Yeah. That works.

Once upon a computer keyboard, I was sifting through my emails. I was only about five weeks behind (a seriously good record for me), when I saw that someone had sent me a message through Match.com a few weeks before.

I was seriously bummed in that moment. The reality of my digital life is that so often I get so far behind that I miss out on good opportunities.

I read the email and clicked through to her profile. This woman was gorgeous. She had long flowing lowlighted brown hair that wisped and curled in that oh-so-sexy “I spent two hours making it look this way” way. Her little button nose was scrunched above a genuine enough look of happiness.

And now the more important requirements, I thought, as I went to actually read her profile. Yes, she makes money. Yes, she makes good money. I knew then that she was datable.

Geez, I kid. Her income wasn’t listed (bummer for those of us looking for sugar-mommas). She did, however, have similar beliefs to mine. She was into skiing. That was a huge plus. She liked to dance. That could be good or bad. She liked Thai food. Big strike. She had a sweetheart of a little girl about Noah’s age. Big plus. Her entire profile wasn’t some giant list of demands or the “I won’t haves.” She lived nearby. She drank socially. Her profile was full of all sorts of wit and intelligence. There was no doubt about it. This girl was more special than most.

And she emailed me. As soon as I thought about that, my B.S. detector started humming. Beautiful, down to earth, funny, awesome girls don’t tend to go searching for guys on Match. At least not in my experience. They don’t have to. I’ve seen their phones when I’ve been on dates with them. No fewer than twelve times per minute their screens light up with notifications that they’ve received another email from yet another suitor.

Find California Lonesome Females

I sniffed around her page even further. I couldn’t see any red flags (aside from the Thai food). I perused all of her photos. She actually was more beautiful in some of them than she was in her main one. No red flags there. I guess I should email her back, I thought.

Then I remembered. It was more than three weeks ago that she emailed me to begin with. There was a good chance she was gone or no longer interested.

I opened up her email anyway and reread what I had read before.

“Hi, I just wanted to tell you your son is adorable and you had me laughing like crazy with your profile! I would love to get to know you!”

Dang it. She complimented my kid and she thought I was funny. It’s like she knew exactly which two things would immediately score huge points for her.

I wrote back, “You are hot. I want to be your husband.”

Oh, come on. Give me some credit. Of course I didn’t say that. I did, however, write back something equally as brief and substantially humorous.

Long story short, we started emailing, and then texting, and the next week we had an official date lined up.

Fast forward to date night.

No, let’s rewind to date morning and the worst three decisions of my entire life.

Decision #1. I decided to eat not just one, and not just two, but six chocolate chip Quaker granola bars. I don’t know why I would do that. They have always been major gas inducers for me.

Decision #2. I decided to eat a super high protein, high fiber breakfast. Cheesy eggs and a bowl full of fruit & nut oatmeal. I don’t know why I would do that. It’s like my brain literally was unable to think ahead that day.

Decision #3. I decided to go to my hot yoga class after breakfast where they would make us do frog pose and other horrible poses that make your butt suck up the outside air. I don’t know why I went. I could have done any other exercise or class. But I did go. And I would pay the price.

Now fast forward to that night.

As any responsible woman with children would do, she wanted to meet for the first time in a very public place. Her choice? At Walmart by the greeter. I didn’t question, I just went.

And, I fell in love. Immediately. With her. Not the greeter.

Now, I was only a few weeks out of my last relationship, and exactly no part of me wanted a relationship anytime soon. I was still licking my wounds. I assure you, my heart certainly didn’t want to find love before (at least) the year 2023.

But I fell in love. She had the smile, the hair, the face, the outfit, the boots, and yes, even the fantastic boobs to go along with it all. As I approached her, she laughed in a way that melted me. We hugged. She smelled better than Thanksgiving dinner (the analogy every girl wants, I know). And she laughed again.

After walking around the produce section sniffing fruits, inappropriately poking avocados, and discussing the power of ginger, she apparently deemed me safe enough and we decided to drive to dinner together.

Rewind to the avocados.

This was the first time I felt my stomach rumble during the night, and I quickly dismissed it as hunger gurgles. It happened again by the deli counter. Again it faded and I assured myself it wasn’t going to be a problem.

On the way to dinner, it hit me a third time, only now I was folded upright in my seat with my jeans pressing tightly into my waistline.

GUUUUURRRRGLLLE.

That was half-way to the restaurant.

Before the monstrous noise sound-vomited into the car, we had both been laughing together about the silliness of the liquor laws here in Utah. We were clicking. Big time. She liked me. I’ve dated enough to know.

But then the gurgle came and she just kind of went quiet. I half-laughed and grabbed my stomach, “man, I am hungry!” I said, in an attempt to play it off. She laughed and said she was too. Then we both went back to laughing and giggling and liking each other.

At the restaurant it happened again while we waited for our server to show up. This one I couldn’t really play off. It actually sounded like a fart even though it didn’t come out of me. It was moving around so forcefully inside of me that my own body couldn’t contain the sound. It immediately happened again.

I looked at her. She thought I had farted. Twice.

Let me repeat. She thought I had farted. TWICE. Right there on our first date in a public place.

“I swear I didn’t fart,” I told her. She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes as I finished with, “I just did yoga today and things are still moving around in there!”

My attempt to make her think I was awesome because I do yoga was thwarted. She thought I was disgusting.

She didn’t like me anymore.

But I could save this. I was in love with her and I wasn’t going to let it go this easily! “Can you excuse me for a moment?” I said as I pushed my chair out from the table. “I just need to… I just… I’ll be right back.”

I looked over my shoulder toward her as I disappeared around the corner. She was flipping around on her phone, probably sifting through all those Match emails.

Now, can we be real with each other for a minute? You all know what it’s like to go to the bathroom when you have gas and to know that you’ve taken care of the problem while in there. And that’s what I did. I took care of the problem, and I was ready to go. Farts would not be a problem for me that night. The date was still savable.

Or so I thought.

What I hadn’t counted on was someone else’s fart ruining… well… everything.

I sat back down at the table.

“You okay there?” she asked snarkily, wanting to make me squirm. I could respect that.

“Sorry, my great aunt Sophie had an emergency with her pet ferret and I just had to talk to her and, you know, help her do…” I purposefully trailed off. She giggled.

Things were back on track.

“You just seriously looked like you were about to die a minute ago. What did you eat for breakfast?”

Okay, now this was getting weird. Yes, it’s weird to fart on a first date (which I didn’t), but it’s far more weird to talk about it. It’s one of those things that you just have to pretend didn’t happen.

Still, she put it out there thinking it was funny, and that made me think about it, and that’s why I was able to tell you earlier exactly what I had for breakfast that day.

Anyway, our wine was poured. A bowl of edamame was placed in front of us. Things got back to normal.

And then… somebody crop dusted us.

Yes. I swear to you. Somebody walked past us and let a horrible, awful, putrid, foul, disgusting, silent fart go. I honestly don’t know who it was. I just know it wasn’t me. And I’m 99% certain it wasn’t my date.

But it didn’t matter. When the odor penetrated our evening, there was no one else there, and based on earlier events, I was stuck between a serious rock and a hard place.

I could deny it. “Whooooooeeeeee! Someone really let one go, didn’t they!?” This could work if she believed me, which she wouldn’t. The much more likely scenario is that she would think I was bald-face lying to her in which case I would become the most disgusting human being on the planet and a weak-sauce sissy boy liar who couldn’t man-up to something so revolting.

Or, I could take the blame. “Ummm, yeah… that one kind of got away from me.” The best case scenario is that she’d just think I was a disgusting human being. If on the 1% chance it was her that did it, she’d think I was noble. But the real truth is, if I took credit for it, our night, and our future, would be over.

So, I chose neither the rock, nor the hard place, and I just pretended like I didn’t smell a damned thing. I went on popping soy beans in my mouth, trying not to dry heave every time the smell of death reminded me that things like that don’t just go away.

And, she ignored it, too. She also stopped eating. She didn’t have the same will power I did to push through it.

Two minutes later her phone began buzzing. She dug through her purse and looked at it. “Uh oh. Babysitter. Do you mind if I take this?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

She quickly left the table, and I ever so quietly squeaked after her, “it wasn’t me!” She didn’t hear me. I didn’t intend for her to hear me.

I knew what she was doing. We’ve all done it. And sure enough.

She returned to the table. “I am so sorry to do this, but my daughter just started throwing up. I need to get home. Can we call it early?”

“Yeah, of course!” I said, acting like I had no clue that she was blowing me off.

The car ride back to Walmart was long. And not very amusing at all. And awkward. And just before we got there, I looked at her and I couldn’t help myself. I began laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

I began laughing harder and shook my head.

“What’s so funny?!” she asked again.

I pulled into the parking lot and put it in park. “It actually wasn’t me,” I told her. “At the restaurant. It wasn’t me.”

She laughed. “Uhhh huhhh.” It was that rock and hard place. I just laughed harder.

And then, remembering how Anna’s boobs saved her in that post I shared above, I pulled up my shirt and showed her mine.

Oh, geez. Of course I didn’t do that.

But I wish I would have, because I never heard from her again.