Gee, wonder why he was still single at 45

Before I met Jim, I had the world’s worst boyfriend. He was horrible for many, many reasons, but one of his least endearing qualities was his concern over my weight. He was skinny—not thin and lean, just wiry and bony. I dated this loser for about six months, which was six months too long.  Think "Shaggy" from Scooby Doo.


Because of his concern for my weight, he would plan long hikes and bike rides or “cook dinner” for me, which consisted of half of a bell pepper or half of a sweet potato. I wish I were kidding.

One wintry Sunday, I took a snowy walk with this horrible boyfriend. We were chugging along when we saw a humongous dog (think Saint Bernard) sniffing around by a shrub ahead of us. The dog looked up then started galloping toward us. This dog had a big, shaggy, brown coat of fur that made it look like a grizzly bear. I’m afraid of big dogs and felt a little panicked. The bonehead I was with leaned over to pet it and the dog nuzzled his jeans. Then I saw that the dark brown muzzle was covered with a schmear of lighter brown poo. The dog had been eating poo at the shrub! The moron said, “Don’t’ pet the dog—it has poo on it.” No kidding?! The dog continued on its way, and I saw the softball sized stain on horrible boyfriend’s jeans and said, “We have to get those off and cleaned!” Then we saw where the dog had been, and the poo was apparently of the human variety, because there was toilet paper in it. Someone decided to take a dump on this trail, and had planned for it with toilet paper. The trail was in no way in the woods; it was just off a state highway, and the sound of traffic was not far off, and houses could be seen from where we were. At that point, I was dry heaving, begging him to go back so we could get the poop jeans out of my sight.

If that had been me that the dog/bear had smeared with poo, I would have gnawed my own leg off or at the very least, stripped off my jeans and run back to the car. Then I would have taken the world’s hottest shower, followed by pouring boiling bleach on the part of my leg that had been under the jeans. And I would have an emergency therapy appointment. Ack! Even now, I heave.

Since it was Sunday, I had planned a dinner at home. I was making a nice dinner, with some yummy rolls, chicken, and salad. When we got to my house, I told him he could use some sweat pants of mine and I’d wash his pants. He declined because there was no way my pants would fit him—ha! (In a cruel twist, he gave me some snow pants for Austin because they didn’t fit him and was horrified when I tried them on and they fit!) So, he sat there in poopy jeans all through dinner. I kept watching his hand rest on his thigh between bites, watching for it to avoid the poo, but he was oblivious.

The next Wednesday, I went to see him in town and what was he wearing? Poop Jeans! He hadn’t washed them even then, and was continuing to wear them! I couldn’t hide my disgust and said that I couldn’t be around the disgusting filth. He said that actually, he didn’t believe jeans should ever be washed, because they lose that “new jeans” finish. That was it. A bad boyfriend is one thing; one that wears human feces on his clothes is another.