A date limiting gesture
I retraced my steps trying to remember the exact moment I last touched my zipper.
7:30 p.m.
I went to the bathroom after dinner. Prior to flush, I became mesmerized by one of the mirror-mirrors on the wall in the women’s room of Father’s Office. I guess I forgot to zip up, but I did remember to button my jeans and flush.
It appears I spent the remaining three hours of my date with TGG (that gym guy) with my fly open. I had a black blouse on and black panties, so maybe everything blended. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t look there or pretended not to notice.
I see London, I see France
I see Marna’s underpants
On my mother’s first date with Mr. Harris, he locked his keys in the car with the engine running and she projectile vomited. Are my date limiting gestures going to continue to get worse as I get older?
What do I have to look forward to after a downed zipper? Gapping buttons? Marinara on the boob ledge? Hanging booger?
It appears I’m genetically inclined to make my dates more interesting the older I get.
Yippee.