Personal Narrative: My Most Memorable Date

I was on a first date with a woman I would never see again. We had met in a less than memorable way and the majority of our date was less than memorable. We met for dinner and a movie — classic date. I have no recollection of the restaurant or the movie. Obviously the date was not something to write home about, nor is it anything to write a blog post about. So what am I even doing? Well there is one part of the date I remember like it happened yesterday four years ago, but was traumatic enough that it has replayed in my mind a thousand times in IMAX detail.
My less than memorable date and I were part way through dinner and had covered the typical first date topics: favorite movies, tv shows, food, animals, and funny and/or impressive stories

“Poor thing probably can’t read. Do you think he knows he’s in the women’s restroom.” The other replied.
My cheeks got red, as I held back tears. A stall opened and I rushed in. As I locked the door, I could feel a hot tear roll down my cheek.
This happened a lot, almost every time I went to the bathroom. I learned to avoid bathrooms, which meant not drinking anything all day/dehydrating myself or holding it, which sometimes led to me embarrassingly wetting myself. Going to the bathroom became a source of anxiety for me at just ten years old. I was told to use the women’s restroom but once inside a women’s restroom I’d get looks, yelled at, questioned, and sometimes kicked out.
One time when I was about 14, I was at a beach with my dad and brother, boogie boarding and collecting really important shells and rocks. I excused myself to the bathroom, which was inconveniently across the beach. As I approached the restroom, I hesitated. I was in my wetsuit and had already been called “young man” several times that afternoon. I could just pee in the ocean — gross it’d sit in my wetsuit. I took a deep breath and rushed passed an older teen girl into the open stall. As I was exiting, three older boys (probably 16–17) met me