Last week over cocktails, a friend asked me if Bridie and I ever argue. I racked my brain before almost settling on the fact that we really don’t – we have one of those annoying relationships where we communicate effectively and get along most of the time. Suddenly, the metaphorical light-bulb above my head went off. “Oh my god…there was the dick-neck incident…” I trailed off and Erin practically spit her drink out, demanding an immediate explanation. Thus I began to regale her with the story of the first and only “fight” Bridie and I ever had, which clearly now – to Bridie’s horror and dismay, I am going to share with the world at large.
The room we shared was dark, and I was lackadaisically scrolling through Facebook when a post caught my eye. “Hey, you have tomorrow off, yeah?” Bridie thought for a moment, and I could see her mentally working through her schedule. “I do, what’s up?” she asked. “My buddy is doing a glow-yoga class set to the music of the Beatles, would you be interested in going?” “Sure!” she replied, and with the simple click of a button I’d purchased two tickets.
For those of you who are wondering what the fuck “glow-yoga” is, it’s not that far off from what you are probably imagining. It’s a yoga class done underneath black lights, people typically wear bright colors, and use florescent markers or body paint to really stand out. We’ve decided that in this day and age plain yoga just isn’t enough so we’ve added things like goats, beer, and also turned it into a rave. The room was full of other yogi’s, and I could hear the standard conversations about people who were holding space for one another, or comparing their favorite kombuchas. While I make light, let it be known I am one of those people, and I love those people. My current kombucha jam, in case you were wondering, is GT’s Cayenneade.
Leading up to the class, I playfully texted Bridie from work about all of the inappropriate things I planned to paint on her body for yoga. “I’m going to give you wizard sleeves,” I said, of course referring to the vulgar slang for large labias, and not the actual arm fabric for a sorcerer’s robes. “I’m going classic,” she texted back, “You’ll get a big old dick on your face.” We walked over to the table and grabbed ourselves a couple of brushes and different colors of paint. Despite my threats, the cheekiest thing I actually did was give her a tramp stamp of my initials in a heart. Aside from that, I stuck to your standard flowers and added a smiley face. When it was my turn I noticed it was taking her awhile and could feel she was working on a complex neck piece. While she can carry a tune, she fumbles with art so I credited the time it was taking to lack of expertise.
When she finally put her paintbrush down, I turned to look in the mirror to see what she had done. There, staring back at me and room full of forty other yogi’s, was a giant, glowing dick. And this wasn’t just any dick, for the record. The amount of detail down to the veins and the hair on the balls made me question just how many penises my girlfriend had seen. “Bridie!” I screamed, “Are you kidding me?!” I grabbed a paper towel and began furiously smearing the image on my skin. “That was a joke,” I hissed, “You weren’t supposed to actually do it!”
With my bleary florescent neck, I unrolled my yoga mat and noted that the other students were fairly distracted with whatever they were doing, though now I do wish someone had seen one lesbian draw a massive illuminated cock on another lesbian. It was a good thing the room was dark, because it made it even easier to avoid eye contact with Bridie for the duration of the class. When it finally ended, we walked silently to my car where she looked near tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I ruined date night.” She was curled in a ball in my passenger seat looking how I imagine a Panda would look if you took away the bamboo it was eating.
“It’s okay,” I comforted her, “It just wasn’t the time and the place and yoga is kind of something I take seriously,” I explained. “It was a little embarrassing but we’re not going to break up over this or anything…I can’t have ‘dick-neck’ be the reason when people ask why were not together.” I could tell she was still upset, but this coerced a small smile on her face. “Besides,” I went on, “You know we’ll look back and laugh at this someday.”
And laugh we did. Well I did anyways, because although Bridie tolerates the fact I tell this story often – I’m not sure she is quite as enthused and enamored with it. While I still contend there’s a time and place to paint phallic images on your girlfriend (I’ll get back to you when that is) if I could go back in a time machine and change it – I absolutely wouldn’t. I would let my girlfriend draw a hundred dicks on me in a room full of yogi’s just to have this one story to hold over her head for the rest of our lives. All in all, I consider myself pretty lucky if this is the most memorable fight we’ve had to date.
Surely our relationship is not one I want to give the shaft, and I think I’ll let her nama-stay a while.