I once went on a triple date. Three girls. Three guys. Dinner. Dancing. After party. Seems simple enough, right? Well, it was until that moment where I had a little conversation with myself that went something like “Enough is Enough, Mademoiselle!” and left the after party.

After the dinner and the dancing, we went back to one of the guys’ apartments. To this day, I do not remember any of the guys or the other girls on the date. They were all nice enough, and were all pretty cool people. I must have blocked it out of my memory altogether, because the only thing that has ever stuck with me is what caused me to hide out near a dumpster at the end of the night.

At the after party, we had a few drinks and some h’ors d’oeuvres just sitting around chatting like normal post-party 20-somethings do. The apartment was really nice, and showcased a lovely white sectional. All the ladies were seated on the white sectional while the guys prepared everything in the kitchen. The chatter was lively, the music was upbeat, and everyone was having a great time.

I was wearing an adorable sleeveless lace top with a spring floral print skirt. I had been sitting on the white couch chatting with the ladies with my knees sweetly tucked under my bum sipping wine. I got the urge to make a dash to the ladies room. Nothing overly dramatic, but the wine was flowing. I stood, and turned to look at the girls to see if I could get them anything on my return from the loo. Their faces were faces of shock, confusion, pity. Their eyes gazed upon the white couch. My sight line slowly made its way to the couch.

OMG! This is NOT happening. Where’s the escape hatch? The rip cord? The trap door? My invisibility cloak? My ability to time travel? Clearly, my super powers were not working today, and nothing was going to save me now.

I had started my period on this guy’s white couch. Who buys a WHITE couch in their twenties?! I became angry at this guy for having a white couch to begin with, but I think my brain was just trying to process the inevitable. It wasn’t just a little bit  that could’ve been easily cleaned or covered, it was everywhere. My cute spring floral print skirt looked like a murder had taken place on it. What does a girl actually do in this situation? I couldn’t very well ask for some cleaner and attempt to remove blood from a white couch while 5 people watched in horror. That would have taken the embarrassment to downright masochism.

So, I did what any self respecting person would do, and I picked up my purse and walked out the back door. I did not say a thing. I did not say goodbye. To my great fortune, nobody chased after me. I feared that might happen, but I was now presented with a whole new issue, where the eff was I supposed to go and how was I to get there? I didn’t have my car, and I had been having cocktails. I remembered that my best friend was having a “night in” that night at my apartment hanging out with my dog, so I called her to come get me. The conversation went something like this:

BFF: Hey, why are you calling me? I thought you were on a date?

Glitter: Oh, I was. Now, I’m not. I NEED you to come get me.

BFF: Why? What happened? Are you okay?

Glitter: Um, I started my period on his white couch.

BFF: ((uncontrollable laughter)) ok. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Wait, where are you?

Glitter: I’m at the XYZ Apartments hiding by the dumpster, and it stinks.

BFF: Oh, honey. I’m getting in my car now. I’ll call you when I pull in.

Glitter: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

BFF: Hang on, so you just walked out?

Glitter: Yeah, what was I supposed to do? Scrub it with carpet cleaner only to watch it bleed all over the rest of the white couch? No pun intended.

BFF: ((More laughter)) I don’t think this guy will be calling you again.

Glitter: Yeah, I figured that. Please hurry.

Needless to say, I never heard from the guy again; not that I expected to. Thank goodness I didn’t personally know any of the girls. Having to relive that moment every time I saw one of them would’ve been too much. I felt bad about leaving his couch in such terrible shape. I would’ve called back an offered to have it cleaned, but I just could not bring myself to do so. I chickened out every time I picked up the phone. I now wish I would have at least done that because it would have been the right thing to do. But, for me enough was enough, mademoiselle.

Stay Glittery, Daters!



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