Wayne was fortyish, with the confident masculinity of somebody who'd been in the armed forces and married to an actual female. We had a lot in common, he claimed. I agreed, but I wasn't convinced. Like you'd find gold doubloons in your Starbucks cup before you'd find another dude into burritos and TV.

Still, I was definitely attracted. We dated for a few weeks, and then came the sleepover. The next morning I laid out a spread of coffee and muffins, and we sat at the table reading the newspaper like an old married couple. He polished off three muffins, then casually sauntered to the bathroom.

Half an hour later, the door finally creaked open. Me, I'd had four cups of coffee, so I was waiting with my legs crossed. I walked toward the bathroom as casually as possible, given the circumstances. "There's more muffins in the fridge," I said offhandedly to Wayne, hoping to distract him from my bodily-function desperation.

"Oh, great," he said, and then he shot me a sheepish look. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

In my head I said, "Adios, Wayne."

See, when you have odor problems that can shut down entire rooms, there are two ways you can deal with it. You can say, "Sorry, but it really stinks in there." Or you can say, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

Of course, guys never do the former. That'd be taking responsibility for their actions, acknowledging that a diet of Cheetos and beef jerky takes its toll on the human body. Instead they opt for the latter, which makes all the subsequent difficulties your fault.

As a warning, though, it's nonsensical. Is it like we have a choice? Do people head to the bathroom for less-than-imperative reasons? I don't. I'm not racing there to make sure everybody's been squeezing the Colgate from the bottom.

See, my body knows what it wants to do. Its messages are pretty decisive. I don't get a sudden telegram shot from my lower regions to my brain saying, "Hey, Roman, either we need to get to a bathroom quick, or we should write a paper on the Underground Railroad!"

So, while I waited for the bathroom to air out, I told Wayne it was over. I can handle a lot of problems, but this is one that'd never go away. I can picture us together forty or fifty years, hearing that same tired old message over and over. Then one day I'd say to myself, "Oh, what the hell." I'd throw open the door and go in.

I'd inhale once and my brain would shut off, and I'd collapse to the floor from lack of oxygen. By the time Wayne found me, it'd be too late.

I know exactly what message he'd choose for my gravestone:

CAN'T SAY HE DIDN'T WARN ME.