Flavor of the Week: Gone with the Wind

My friends always me ask what type of guys I like, as if I keep a list of personality traits and characteristics at the ready. You know, the sort of list on which phrases like "tall, dark and handsome" or "good sense of humor" typically appear.

Truth be told, while I’ve never really kept such a tally, strong, silent types are usually pretty appealing to me. They’re engimatic, compelling and often a challenge. In fact, I once went on a date with a strong, silent type. Unfortunately, I’m not talking about the guy’s personality. The strong, silent type to which I’m referring is gas. Yeah, I was out on a date with a guy who farted—a strong, silent type whose seemingly toxic fumes left little to the imagination.

It happened halfway through an afterdinner drink on our third date.

Thinking back, we should have ended long before there was a possibility of a third date. Our first two dates hadn’t been promising in the least, but at the time I’d formed the habit of allowing guys three chances. A string of initial get-togethers, what I’d begun referring to as "chemistry checks," first time in-person meetings, had ended with no potential for second dates. I’d been scolding myself over potentially being too precipitous in my decision making. Was I giving guys a fair chance? Was I buoyant and flirtatious enough? What could I do differently?

I soldiered on. I began asking myself to be nicer, more patient. On this night, I didn’t really want an after-dinner drink with my third-date guy in the first place, but I found myself going along with it anyway. I’d made a pact—I’d agreed to be agreeable. I listened politely to his droning about how great Stew Leonard’s is, how they sell anything you could ever want or need. There was something about his love of fishing. He tossed out an odd pop culture reference at which I gamely nodded.

We exchanged what passed for flimsy conversation, accentuating an already uncomfortable evening. I felt that I’d truly given this guy a chance. As it happened, my skills as an interviewer came in handy, as they did on many dates. I’d already initiated and carried most of the conversation: "Oh, you like to cook. What’s your favorite thing to make?" I waited dutifully for the response. "Lamb and couscous with vegetables is one of my specialties," he said. It did sound delicious, so I forged ahead. "Do you make a chutney to go with it, or any type of accompaniment?" He went on to describe his typical ritual with the dish. I tried hard to engage. "So you serve it with a yogurtbased dill sauce? I bet it’s delicious," I heard myself say, wincing at the extent of my embellishments. I initiated and maintained the lopsided exchange like a tennis rally. Serve and return. Serve and return. I leaned in for emphasis.

And while my date stepped up to the net to return the ball, he failed to serve it. What’s a girl to do when the guy doesn’t step up? The last thing I expected during a stilted tennis match was a fart.

When it arrived, the fetid odor lingered between us like an unwanted guest or the remains of a stinky cheese, oozing all over the plate. The noxious smell spread alarmingly quickly, prompting the bartender to look up suddenly from his task of plating prosciutto and toasted baguettes.

We were in a wine/tapas bar, the only two people in our particular section of the bar. I was about halfway through my drink when I noticed it—a cross between the sulfuric smell of rotting eggs and three-dayold garbage in 95-degree heat. The putrid air caused me to pause mid-conversation, simultaneously shocked and offended. The sensory assault triggered my fight or flight response—a thoroughly visceral reaction. I shifted nervously on my barstool. Oh well, I thought, a fitting end to the evening. I couldn’t think. I was so deadened by the foul air that all I could do was plot my escape. Needless to say, that fart killed what little energy I had to continue with an evening that should have ended after an awkward dinner over Pad Thai.

I glanced at him. He wore a greasy sheen and a goofy smile. Was he sweating? Was that actual sweat on his forehead? Was he embarrassed? Could he have been nervous or was this simply his way of putting an end to the evening, signifying his lack of interest? It ocurred to me that passing gas might be one of those things guys do to a) let you know they’re not into you or b) see how you will handle it. How convoluted, I thought, if indeed either of those options was real.

I quickly reviewed the possible culprits.

The chiles in that basil chicken dish? Something in the spring rolls? Maybe it was the wine he said he normally doesn’t drink. Who knew? Who cared? I wanted out. I squirmed nervously, feeling badly for him but worse for myself. I looked around for other people it could have possibly come from.

The malodorous odor wafted, circulating in no particular direction. I quickly determined that it couldn’t have come from anyone but him. I contemplated my options. If I fled to the ladies’ room,

I would have to return to him and manufacture an abrupt end to the evening. I wondered why he hadn’t excused himself and gone to the men’s room. Wasn’t containment always an option?

An uncomfortable silence took over. I quickly made a decision to leave, gulping some wine down: "Uh…I think I need to take off," I said, not caring what he thought of my hasty retreat. He stared at me with that same goofy grin. Neither of us attempted to address the silent offender. I could tell he felt badly. He didn’t try to stop me. Instead, he asked if he could walk me home. I demurred, thanking him for getting together and wishing him a good evening.

The next day, as I walked to the train on my way to take care of an errand, I wondered if we couldn’t have found a way to have a laugh over it. What if we had both burst out laughing instead of suppressing the obvious, anxietyproducing discomfort we both felt? "Was that you?" I imagined him asking.

Mortified, I was thankful such a dialogue hadn’t occurred. Gas or no gas, he wasn’t meant for me. "Next!" I thought. It was the only word in my head.