“Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly.”
Rose Franken
Every couple has their defining moment.
Some have Paris.
We have burritos, a gym, and women’s sweatpants.
Shelley and I met freshman year of college. I saw her once and forgot how to speak. She saw me once and thought, “He seems… nice.”
She was almost interested in a guy named Tim. Tim had muscles, an accent, and that smug energy people get when they’re from somewhere colder. He was basically Boston’s ambassador to Texas.
But for reasons still unclear to science, Shelley picked me.
We dated through college, built on deep conversation, cheap meals, and overconfidence.
The kind of relationship where you’re convinced you’ve discovered love for the first time in human history.
And then one night, everything changed.
The Decision
We’d just finished eating burritos—the kind that taste amazing until they stage a rebellion.
We’re driving home when Shelley says, completely out of nowhere:
“We should work out.”
“Right now?” I said.
She nodded.
Let me be clear: Shelley and I were not gym people. We were the “accidentally getting cardio because we’re late” people.
But she looked excited, and I made the mistake of thinking love means saying yes to bad ideas.
So we went.
Twenty minutes later we walk into the campus rec center—three stories tall, open 24 hours, built by people who’ve never met a college student.
Shelley starts jogging. I pick a stationary bike. I pedal just hard enough to feel superior.
And for about three minutes, I thought, “Wow. Maybe we really are gym people.”
Then it happened.
A little pressure in my stomach.
No one else around.
I thought, “Okay, just a small one. No big deal.”
It was not small.
It was… visible from space.
A smell that could peel paint.
I panicked.
I kept pedaling, hoping movement would somehow disperse the evidence.
It did not. It created wind.
Then came round two. Stronger. Angrier. The burrito’s revenge.
And somewhere between the third and fourth wave, I realized something worse.
This wasn’t gas.
The Realization
I froze.
Every man knows this moment—the instant your body betrays you and you pray to every deity available.
I whispered, “Oh no.”
Then I did what any brave, responsible adult would do.
I sprinted to the bathroom like I was fleeing a crime scene.
Inside the stall, I assessed the situation.
It was… catastrophic.
A Jackson Pollock of shame.
I cleaned up with that cheap institutional toilet paper that feels like regret and sandpaper had a baby.
I threw away my underwear like it was evidence.
But then came the real crisis: my shorts.
Ruined. Unwearable.
And I couldn’t just… walk out.
That’s when it hit me. Shelley had sweatpants in her locker.
The Sweatpants
I waited until she jogged past.
“Hey,” I said, too fast. “I need your sweatpants. Immediately.”
She blinked. “My sweatpants?”
“Yes. Please. Don’t ask questions.”
To her credit, she didn’t. She just said, “Sure,” and started laughing—the kind of laugh that says, I have questions, and they’re going to be amazing.
I changed fast. I was finally clean(ish). Dignity restored(ish).
And then fate decided I hadn’t suffered enough.
The Return of Tim
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, glowing like an action figure, was Tim.
Of course it was Tim.
The one man on earth least equipped to see me like this—wearing tight women’s sweatpants and the faint aroma of defeat.
“Hey, Michelle,” he said to Shelley, flashing that Boston grin. “Long time no see.”
He’s become a firefighter.
Because of course he did.
If he’d added “puppy rescuer” I would’ve just walked into traffic.
He turned to me. “Hey, man. You doing okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, sweating through polyester. “Just… working out.”
He nodded, clearly unconvinced.
We chatted briefly—by which I mean, he talked while I prayed for death.
Eventually, he left, leaving behind a faint trail of competence.
The Aftermath
Shelley looked at me and started laughing again. Hard. Tears-in-the-eyes laughing.
And somehow, so did I.
Because in that moment, there was nothing else to do.
I think every couple gets tested. Some with long distance, some with in-laws, some with finances.
We got tested with a burrito and a recumbent bike.
And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it.
Because love isn’t about being perfect or romantic or heroic.
It’s about finding someone who can look at you, in women’s sweatpants, smelling faintly of digestive defeat, and still think, Yeah, that’s my person.
Shelley and I have been together almost thirty years now.
We’ve had big moments, meaningful ones, beautiful ones.
But that night—that awful, hilarious, completely human night—might still be my favorite.
Because when you can laugh that hard in your lowest moment…
you’ve probably found forever.
