“Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly.”
Rose Franken
Every marriage has its defining moments. Some couples have Paris; others have sunset walks on the beach. Shelley and I have a spontaneous gym visit, burritos, and women’s sweatpants.
Shelley and I met freshman year of college. Our school had one of those summer-camp-style orientations designed to indoctrinate new students into all things spirited and tradition-filled. The whole affair was meant to create immediate, lifelong friendships. You arrived on campus knowing precisely eleven people, two songs, and absolutely no clue how to do laundry.
I didn’t meet Shelley at camp—I wasn’t quite so lucky. Instead, I met her afterward, when I befriended a guy from her camp group and he introduced me. Shelley was one of them, and in typical romantic-comedy fashion, the instant I saw her, I lost any ability to form coherent sentences. She, on the other hand, seemed cautiously optimistic about me. As she later put it:
“You seemed…nice.”
Her hesitation may have had something to do with Tim. Tim was one of her camp leaders: handsome, muscular, with an accent that unmistakably announced, “I’m from Boston, and therefore interesting.” At a college in Texas, he was practically exotic.
Tim was a guy who could smile at someone and completely rewrite their romantic priorities. For a brief moment, Shelley was among the many who had caught his eye. But fortunately—for me, anyway—Tim never really pursued her. At least, not until Shelley showed interest in someone who wasn’t him: specifically, me. Suddenly, Tim found himself intrigued, because that’s how these things usually go.
We found ourselves in the sort of love triangle you only see in movies or poorly-scripted sitcoms. Yet somehow—and to my eternal amazement—Shelley picked me.
Tim, perhaps sensing he’d missed his cue, quietly exited stage left midway through freshman year, returning to Boston for family reasons. He was simply gone, and life moved forward. Shelley and I settled comfortably into a routine of classes, cheap dates, and the kind of dramatic, impassioned declarations of love only nineteen-year-olds can sincerely utter.
We spent our evenings convinced we were discovering truths about relationships that generations before us had somehow overlooked. We could talk endlessly about nothing and found even minor obstacles—like whose dorm we’d spend Friday night in—to be tests worthy of Shakespearean tragedy.
In short, we were young, happy, and embarrassingly sure that nothing could ever disrupt our perfect little bubble.
A Spontaneous Decision
Fast forward to sophomore year. Shelley and I were solidly together, past the stage of dramatic romantic declarations and firmly in the comfort of knowing each other’s Starbucks orders by heart.
On a weeknight—probably a Tuesday, maybe a Wednesday—we’d just finished eating at one of those burrito joints famous among college students for their legendary burritos and suspiciously cheap queso. We were heading back to campus when Shelley glanced over and said, completely out of nowhere:
“We should work out.”
I laughed. “Right now?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
I hesitated. Spontaneous gym visits weren’t exactly a hallmark of our relationship. Neither of us had ever been particularly fitness-obsessed. Healthy, sure. But our fitness routine usually consisted of accidentally walking faster because we were late to class.
But love is a powerful motivator—and as I glanced at Shelley’s excited expression, suddenly hitting the gym seemed like a brilliant idea.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, shrugging as though spontaneous exercise was exactly the sort of thing we always did. “Let’s do it.”
Twenty minutes later, we walked into the campus rec center. It was a massive three-story structure open 24 hours—built with the kind of optimistic ambition that assumes students might actually want to bench press at two in the morning. At this hour, though, it was mostly deserted, a detail I would soon come to appreciate more than anything.
“What’s your plan?” I asked Shelley, looking around uncertainly.
“I’m going to jog,” she said confidently, already moving toward the stairs leading to the running track on the third floor.
Jogging sounded terrible.
Instead, I opted for a recumbent stationary bike, conveniently positioned right in the middle of the third-floor track. Shelley began running laps, flashing me a smile and a wave each time she circled past.
I pedaled leisurely, feeling smugly fit after just a few minutes. Sweat started forming, my breathing settled into a nice rhythm, and—for a brief, shining moment—I thought to myself, “Wow, maybe we really are gym people.”
But then, deep in my stomach, I felt a sudden and unmistakable discomfort.
I looked around nervously. It was just Shelley and me up here—no one else in sight. Surely, a harmless fart would relieve the pressure.
So I did it.
Quietly, discreetly—barely a whisper of gas escaped, I thought.
But there was nothing quiet or discreet about the smell.
It emerged forcefully, potent enough to strip paint from walls. It smelled like regret and burritos. I glanced around again, relieved at the solitude.
“Okay,” I muttered quietly, still pedaling, confident the smell would soon dissipate.
Except—it didn’t.
If anything, it intensified. Each subsequent fart was more aggressive, more vengeful than the last. The burrito I’d enjoyed not thirty minutes earlier was exacting its revenge.
Then something unexpected happened. While I’m notoriously known among friends as a prodigious “butt-sweater” (a delightful genetic trait I’ve passed down for generations), this felt different.
More intense.
Wetter, somehow.
I froze mid-pedal.
“Oh no,” I whispered, realization dawning with icy horror.
I stood abruptly, my heart hammering in my chest, sweat now ice-cold on my forehead.
This wasn’t butt sweat.
This was something else entirely.
Panic at the Gym
In moments of crisis, human beings are supposed to demonstrate heroism. We’re supposed to summon clarity and courage, make split-second decisions that rescue people from burning buildings or lift cars off trapped puppies.
Unfortunately, when I realized what had just happened on that recumbent bicycle, I exhibited none of these qualities.
Instead, I panicked, immediately reverted to primitive instinct, and raced to the men’s bathroom as though fleeing an actual crime scene.
Inside the bathroom stall, safely hidden away, I assessed the damage.
It was as though I’d been the victim of some unspeakable diaper malfunction—only, tragically, I was no longer an adorable infant whose indiscretions could be laughed off as “cute.”
The recumbent pedaling motion, combined with the unfortunate consistency of my distress, had created something of a Jackson Pollock masterpiece in the back of my shorts.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” I whispered, my voice quivering with disbelief and shame.
To make matters worse, my careful, tactical decision to immediately sit down on the toilet had compounded the disaster—smearing evidence everywhere.
I gingerly peeled off my underwear, holding them as far from my body as possible, as though they were radioactive. With a grimace, I tossed them into the trash bin, mentally apologizing to whichever poor custodian would later discover this crime scene.
I did my best with the thin, industrial-grade toilet paper provided by the university, a material apparently designed more for exfoliation than sanitation.
The cleanup was agonizingly slow.
Every noise outside the bathroom sent my heart racing, certain someone was about to walk in and find me—shorts around my ankles, shamefully wiping at my legs and backside.
After several tense minutes, I’d managed to restore myself to some minimal level of dignity.
But then came the next terrible realization: my shorts.
The shorts themselves bore unmistakable evidence of the tragedy I’d just experienced. I simply couldn’t wear them. But I also couldn’t casually stroll out to the gym, pantsless and vulnerable, hoping Shelley might run by at just the right moment.
I stood frozen, mind racing, sweating now not from exertion but pure anxiety.
Then it struck me: Shelley.
Of course!
Shelley had sweatpants in her gym locker.
They’d be tight, perhaps embarrassingly so, but they were clean. And at this desperate moment, clean was all I needed.
I composed myself as best as I could, shorts back on—awkwardly, gingerly, miserably—and peeked outside.
Mercifully, still no one around.
I waited anxiously by the bathroom, trying my best to appear casual as Shelley jogged toward me, headphones bouncing around her neck.
“Hey!” she called out cheerily, still jogging in place. “What’s wrong? You done already?”
“Listen,” I said quickly, breathlessly, interrupting her. “I’ll explain later, absolutely no time for questions, but I need your sweatpants. Immediately.”
Shelley paused, cocking her head curiously. To her credit, she didn’t burst into laughter—at least, not yet. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, amusement creeping into her voice.
“My sweatpants?”
“Yes. Right now. Please.”
She studied my desperate expression, fighting back a grin. Then she shrugged.
“Sure. Follow me.”
We hurried to her locker, Shelley laughing softly under her breath the whole way. As she handed me her sweatpants, she looked at me, concern mixing with genuine amusement.
“Are you going to tell me what—?”
“Later. Much later,” I said quickly, dashing back toward the bathroom before she could interrogate further.
As I locked myself safely back into the stall, my heart rate began to slow. I was almost home free. All I had to do was get these sweatpants on, discard my ruined shorts, and escape the gym before anyone else could—
I paused, mid-thought.
It was precisely at that moment I imagined, vividly, someone walking in to discover me half-naked, awkwardly stepping into women’s sweatpants, my own shorts abandoned like some kind of grotesque forensic evidence.
I shuddered at the thought, quickly finishing the process.
When I finally emerged, now sporting Shelley’s very flattering—and form-fitting—women’s sweatpants, I found her waiting patiently, arms folded and eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“All right,” she grinned. “I need details.”
And as I recounted my humiliating ordeal, Shelley erupted into laughter—deep, gasping, full-body laughter that shook her shoulders and brought tears to her eyes.
And in spite of myself—despite the embarrassment, the horror, and the lingering smell—I found myself laughing too. It was laughter born of relief, shared humiliation, and a relationship comfortable enough to survive even this.
But just as our laughter faded and we turned toward the stairs to leave, something—someone—unexpected appeared at the bottom of the steps.
Tim Returns
Standing at the foot of the stairs, bathed inexplicably in flattering fluorescent light, was Tim.
Of course it was.
Tim, in all his muscular, golden-skinned glory. Tim, the guy Shelley almost chose.
Tim, who—unlike me—had clearly never soiled himself in a public gym.
My heart sank into my stomach—although given recent events, perhaps that wasn’t the safest place for it to go.
He was grinning, that effortless Boston charm radiating from every perfectly chiseled feature. If he’d somehow managed to bring a puppy and a guitar with him, the picture would have been complete.
“Hey, Michelle,” he said, voice casual and confident, the kind of tone reserved exclusively for attractive people who know exactly how attractive they are. “Long time no see.”
Shelley’s eyes widened slightly, a smile spreading across her face. “Oh, hey, Tim! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m enrolled at the firefighter academy here in town,” Tim explained modestly, as if becoming a firefighter was a normal, everyday decision—like buying milk, or maybe accidentally ruining a pair of shorts at the gym. “It’s actually a pretty prestigious program,” he added, flashing a grin toward me as though sharing a secret.
Shelley nodded enthusiastically. “Wow, good for you!”
Tim gave a humble shrug, the perfect balance of pride and modesty. His eyes traveled toward me, and for the briefest moment, confusion flickered in his expression—likely triggered by my ill-fitting women’s sweatpants, or perhaps the unmistakable aroma of shame still clinging stubbornly to my person.
“Hey, man,” Tim said, extending a hand toward me. I reluctantly shook it, hoping he wouldn’t notice how clammy my palm felt.
“Hey, Tim,” I replied weakly, forcing a smile. “Good to see you.”
He looked me up and down, brow furrowing slightly with confusion—or perhaps pity.
“You, uh… doing okay?”
I cleared my throat, nodding far too vigorously. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. Just, you know—working out.”
“Cool, cool,” Tim nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced.
Shelley, sensing disaster, smoothly jumped back in. “How long have you been back in town?”
As they chatted, I watched Tim closely, recognizing that effortless charisma I’d almost forgotten existed. I wondered if Shelley was secretly comparing us: Tim, the heroic firefighter-in-training who’d returned from mysterious adventures in the North, and me—the guy currently sweating through borrowed women’s sweatpants, trying desperately not to draw attention to my unique fragrance.
After a few minutes of painfully polite conversation, Tim checked his watch.
“Well, it was great running into you two,” he said warmly. “We should hang out sometime.”
Shelley smiled brightly. “Yeah, for sure!”
Tim nodded politely toward me—though I couldn’t shake the feeling he was silently questioning every life choice Shelley had made over the past two years.
And then, mercifully, Tim walked away, disappearing into the evening like a ridiculously handsome phantom.
Shelley turned to look at me, eyes sparkling with barely-contained laughter.
“Well, that was fun,” she said softly, biting back a grin.
“Oh yeah,” I replied dryly, adjusting the waistband of her sweatpants. “Fun is exactly how I’d describe it.”
We headed silently toward the exit, Shelley squeezing my hand reassuringly. And as we stepped into the cool night air, we both started laughing again—partly from relief, mostly from sheer disbelief.
Because, at the end of the day, our love story wasn’t about romantic perfection or cinematic heroics. It was about two people who could stand in front of their former romantic rivals while wearing the wrong clothes and smelling vaguely of livestock, and still think, “Yeah, this person is definitely my forever.”
The Choices We Make
In the years since, I’ve often wondered what Tim must have thought that night—what stories he told his friends afterward, or if he ever realized just how close he’d come to witnessing the scene in the bathroom. But mostly, I wonder if Tim ever remembers that night and thinks, “Huh. Michelle ended up with that guy?”
The truth is, every relationship has a handful of moments where fate seems to test it.
Some couples face these tests dramatically, overcoming massive obstacles or achieving grand romantic gestures. Shelley and I have always been tested by smaller, stranger challenges—like my body’s catastrophic betrayal in a rec-center bathroom.
But in a funny way, I’m glad for these moments. Because every embarrassing situation, every cringe-worthy memory we collect, becomes a part of the tapestry of our life together. Over the years, we’ve laughed more times than I can count about the burrito gym disaster—usually in public settings, and often at my expense.
And maybe that’s the point.
Life isn’t about perfection, and love isn’t about choosing the person who always appears heroic, flawless, or immune to gastrointestinal catastrophe.
It’s about choosing someone who, even at your absolute lowest moment—someone who, despite all evidence to the contrary, finds your humiliation genuinely hilarious, and loves you even more because of it.
Shelley and I have been together for nearly 30 years, and though there have been many milestones, romantic trips, and happy memories, it’s these absurdly human moments that anchor us—reminding us that we’ve chosen each other not just in spite of our flaws, but because of them.
And for the record, Shelley still laughs every single time I tell this story. She insists it gets better—and funnier—with age.
Just like us.
I like to think she’s right.
Because among life’s infinite choices, among all the clean-shorted, non-sweatpant-borrowing, handsome firefighters out there, Shelley chose me.
And after all these years, despite everything, I’m still grateful—especially since I haven’t exactly gotten any less prone to mishaps.
But that, my friends, is another story for another time.
