Bethanyisms (And the Bummer)

He was one-half of an identical twin unit and rather interchangeable with his brother. They had the same major, the same bald head, and no obvious distinguishing characteristics. Instead of referring to them by their individual names, everyone just called them the “The Twins.”

And I can’t remember for the life of me which twin it was that I was dating (by "dating" I mean we had gone on three dates with no physical manifestations as to why).

Rumor had it that neither of the twins had taken a girl on more than three dates. Being that this evening would be our third date, and being that I was in love with him (or his brother... can't be sure) I felt determined to break the trend. I spent an extra half an hour getting ready for our date that night. I flat-ironed my hair, glossed my lips, and wore my extra-favorite extra-lucky pair of jeans.

It was a group date—heaven forbid the twins should be separated for more than an hour—and we went to dinner, hot-tubbing, and out for hot chocolate afterword. The night seemed to have gone without a hitch. We said goodnight and I shut the door behind me, feeling confident that a fourth date was in the bag.

Until I felt a draft.

I ran to the mirror and inspected my backside. GREAT CAESAR’S GHOST!

Here’s what had happened:

At some point after the hot tub, my lucky jeans decided that they were no longer lucky, and literally split open at the back pocket without me noticing! Normally this would not have been a problem. I had my swimsuit on underneath, right?

But my swimsuit was a one-piece that never fit quite right. I was always picking it out of places that it didn’t belong (namely my butt-crack). And, as usual, my swimsuit had migrated to its favorite cozy spot that night—leaving my right butt cheek vulnerable and exposed.

And not just a little exposed. We’re talking 65% of my butt cheek flapping in the wind exposed.

And I hadn’t even noticed.

My first emotion was sheer horror. I stared in the mirror and examined the atrocity from every angle possible—each angle looking more horrific than the previous. There’s no way he (or his twin) could’ve missed it.

You know when something horribly embarrassing happens, the only way to make your self feel better is to quickly tell as many people about it as possible? Like somehow the more people who hear about it from your mouth, and not someone else's, the less embarrassing it is?

At least that’s how I handle embarrassment.

So I ran down stairs to show my friend, Tori, the exposed cheek. She gasped. And then burst into laughter.

Then, I too was caught by the hilarity of the situation. It knocked me off my feet. I rolled around on the floor in violent uncontrollable laughter.

I knew that a fourth date was no longer an option.

But that’s okay. I’d never be able to look him in the eye again, anyway.

Maybe bums aren't so great.