I was looking through some of my first posts for this blog, and found this one. I’d forgotten that I wrote it. I was tempted to punch it up a bit, but frankly I’m just too lazy this morning. It’s an absolutely true story in every detail. Poor Terry. His big romantic plans just didn’t go the way he thought they would. Didn’t matter, though. Love triumphs 🙂
Tell us your funniest relationship disaster story.)
The relationship wasn’t–isn’t–a disaster, but the story is disastrously funny.
He told me we were going on an outing, a picnic. We’d be driving up to Lake Mille Lacs. I wasn’t sure how to dress, because he made it sound very casual, but also pretty important. So I asked.
“How should I dress? Shorts? Skirt and top? Long pants?”
“Uhhh, well, I’m not sure. Wear something nice. I like that dress with the brown and gold stripes.”
“For a picnic? Really?”
“Yeah, that should work out ok.”
So I got myself ready, and back in 1968 that meant stockings, if you were wearing a dress. It meant fixing your hair and wearing a little perfume, a little makeup. Nice shoes. I felt fluttery, because I kind of suspected what he had in mind.
The drive up to the lake was typically Minnesota-in-August. Blue sky, puffy clouds. Since it wasn’t a weekend, the traffic wasn’t that heavy. We chatted all the way up, me loving the power of his GTO as it ate up the miles.
Once we got to the lake, he began to search for the perfect spot to park. It’s a process I’ve become familiar with over the years. Finally he pulled into a small parking area, grabbed a blanket and the picnic basket, and locked up the car. He thought we were close to a picnic area.
Yeah. “Thought” is the operative word. Now, remember: I’m dressed up. Pantyhose, dress, perfume, hairspray. Go look at a picture of some girl in 1968. You’ll get the idea. Well, here you go; I found one for you 🙂
Now, she was probably going to a party. I wasn’t quite that glammed up, but you get the idea.
Remember also that it’s August in central Minnesota. Hot. Humid.
We were at a lake that was surrounded by lots of woods. Mosquitoes. Deer flies.
I was wearing perfume. I attract stinging insects even without perfume. They love me.
We walked, looking for the fabled picnic ground. And we walked. We sweated. We slapped bugs. We came across lovely, romantic things like discarded paper diapers–full. Dead fish. Malodorous. Other unseemly dead things that I didn’t want to ask about. We never did find the picnic area. We finally did find a relatively clear patch of water, and we both took off our shoes; I found a bush and got rid of the hose, hiked up my skirt, and went wading into the deliciously cool water.
Clouds of mosquitoes lifted gently from the weeds along the water’s edge and elegantly settled back down all over me. Flies landed where mosquitoes feared to go.
Well, Terry wisely bagged the idea of proposing to me along the fabled shores of Gitcheegoomee. Instead, we ran (I was screaming) from the evil swamp monstersbackthroughtheweedsandunderbrushandsandanddiapersandfish until we reached the safety of the car.
Poor guy. I think he was more embarrassed than he’d ever been in his life.
But we ended up living happily ever after.