Unlike the butt post, this post is not actually about poop. Well, it kind of is.
Let me back up. (Have you noticed how, when you lead with poo, everything that follows becomes a double-entendre? 'Cause I have.) Anyway. It is a well-known and oft-ridiculed fact that all things concerning defecation make me wildly, morbidly uncomfortable. I realize it is a natural bodily function. I also realize that everyone (except for me, of course) does it. But it's so yucky.
I don't understand how some people are so nonchalant about it. I've worked with people who proudly carry a magazine to the company restroom, nodding and smiling at anyone they meet en route. "I'm on my way to poop, peers and direct-reports! Pooping! So, now you know that about me. Hold my calls until I'm done! Poowooowooping!"
I've also worked with people who announce in the smoke room that they need to do some heavy lifting. Oh, fine. Go! But for God's sake, don't tell anybody! Keep it a secret. Be ashamed. Once, I walked into a restroom in bar and there was a line to the lone stall. A woman in the stall called out, "I'm sorry everybody. I'm going to be in here a while." Just announcing it to an entire room of strangers, who would, after that announcement, stand around listening, smelling, and generally witnessing her most private moment. We should all have given her high fives as she exited the stall. (Maybe after she washed her hands.)
Finally, I once shared a restroom with a woman who used to discuss potential dinner selections with her boyfriend while nature was calling on line #2. Why would she do that? How busy, how painfully overscheduled could she be that she would be forced to multi-task that most private and revolting of personal jobs? I vividly recall her asking her boyfriend if he still wanted fish sticks, or if she should pick up some ground beef for burgers. If I had to do all my menu planning while in the bathroom, we would never eat again.
So, if I walk into the bathroom and the room is clearly heavily in use, I'm outta there. I will wait until I go home. 10 hours later. If I am in the washroom and someone enters a neighboring stall and gets right to work, I will pee like it's my job and get the h#ll out of there so fast, you'll think Superman was changing in my stall. And if you tell me about your own poo situation, or worse, ask me to examine a poo you made (oh, beloved hippie friends, with your colon cleanses and sawdust granola), I will never speak to you again. And when people ask me why we no longer hang out, I will tell them you've changed. Which in my mind will be true, because now you're disgusting.
(I'm kidding, of course. I'm not this big a baby. Speaking of which, I am utterly unimpacted by my baby's poo. No problem. And she is more unabashed about her BMs than any creature on the planet, save a spider monkey or reality tv contestant.)
As with most unreasonable preoccupations, my poo-hangup (sounds like the worst closet accessory ever) has caused me some trouble. Once, it even forced me to violate my own ethical code.
I was out to dinner with a friend, and she had brought a friend of hers along to join us. I had never met this friend before this dinner adventure, although I had heard a lot about her. Conversation was lively, and the food was franchise faire- we ordered cheesy appetizers, and settled in to our 16 oz. beers. I got up to take a call from home in the restaurant's foyer. After I finished the call, I decided I should take the opportunity to use the restroom.
Because I have a sixteen-year-old, I have spent more time dunking my kibbles in the toilet water than the average woman. My son leaves the seat up, uses the last of the toilet paper, and generally boobie traps the bathroom seven out of eight times he uses the bathroom. It has crossed my mind to build him a small outhouse in the backyard, so that in February's 20-below weather, I can shout out the window at him, "who's butt is chilly now, my little friend!" but I have not. 'Cause it'd be me that had to empty the receptacle, like an enormous human litter box, and I will do no such thing unless it will save lives. Period.
I digress.
So, short story, I've learned some lessons in bathroom re-con from my son. I always check that the seat is down, and free of liquid adornment. I always check to make sure there is TP at the ready (because I have walked, plastic army guy-style, to fetch a roll of TP from the hall closet more times than I care to recount). So, when I entered one of the two bathroom stalls in the restaurant washroom, I immediately ascertained that the situation was untenable - no TP at all. Shreds on a naked roll. I went for the second stall. I should mention that I also detest speaking to anyone while I'm in the stall. It's not talky-time. It's business time. When I am done with that business, we can catch up on all the fun stuff happening in the office, our lives, Top Chef, whatever. But while I'm actually midstream? Quiet. So, when I saw the shoes of my friend's friend enter the neighboring stall, I thought, "There's no toilet paper in there!" But what I said was nothing. Because it wasn't talky time yet. And then a terrible thing happened.
In the approximately 15 seconds since her arrival in the stall, sounds of havoc and destruction emanated from her body. I don't know if maybe she had just finished a twenty-day diet of refried beans and espresso, or maybe just had two-thirds of her intestines removed, or what, but bad, bad things were happening, and happening fast. It sounded like a hundred angry ninjas, fighting their way out of her butt.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh noooooooooooooooooooo. Now I was in an awful position. I knew something she didn't know- there was no toilet paper in that stall. And she definitely needed some toilet paper (plastic gloves, tarp, etc.). I stood there in my stall, wringing my hands and shaking my head. What could I do? If I gave her some toilet paper, she would know that it was me over here, and that I had witnessed what she just did. And if I didn't, I would abandon her to somehow get toilet paper from my stall, and I couldn't even imagine how she would accomplish that task without another set of clothes, or one of those claw-things they sell on late night tv. I'm no abandoner! I'm a sister! Yes, I have a tampon you can borrow! Yes, I will check if you have any pee on your white pants! Yes, I will tell you if you have spinach in your teeth, your bra shows through your shirt, and if your butt looks blimpy in those jeans. But I was frozen. And I fled.
I didn't even wash my hands.
I practically ran to the table. I hurriedly sat down, bright red and sweaty. Then I scrubbed hand sanitizer all over my hands and forearms, and sat there holding my arms away from my body to dry, like a surgeon.
My friend's friend came from the restroom almost immediately. She seemed like she was feeling great, which honestly was confounding to me. Millions of totally inappropriate questions fought their way to my mouth, and I bit them back: "Are you feeling better?" or, "Do you want a Rolaids?" and, "Did you accidentally put Drano in your coffee this morning?"
When the waitress came, my friend's friend ordered a Buffalo Chicken Strip sandwich. Don't do it! Round two is just a few hours away! I thought. I fought the urge to suggest Chicken Noodle Soup, and silently asked forgiveness for failing her in her moment of need.
I'd like to say I learned an important lesson that day, but the truth is, I'd do exactly the same thing if it happened again. Which it never will, because I'm holding it from here on out.
Let me back up. (Have you noticed how, when you lead with poo, everything that follows becomes a double-entendre? 'Cause I have.) Anyway. It is a well-known and oft-ridiculed fact that all things concerning defecation make me wildly, morbidly uncomfortable. I realize it is a natural bodily function. I also realize that everyone (except for me, of course) does it. But it's so yucky.
I don't understand how some people are so nonchalant about it. I've worked with people who proudly carry a magazine to the company restroom, nodding and smiling at anyone they meet en route. "I'm on my way to poop, peers and direct-reports! Pooping! So, now you know that about me. Hold my calls until I'm done! Poowooowooping!"
I've also worked with people who announce in the smoke room that they need to do some heavy lifting. Oh, fine. Go! But for God's sake, don't tell anybody! Keep it a secret. Be ashamed. Once, I walked into a restroom in bar and there was a line to the lone stall. A woman in the stall called out, "I'm sorry everybody. I'm going to be in here a while." Just announcing it to an entire room of strangers, who would, after that announcement, stand around listening, smelling, and generally witnessing her most private moment. We should all have given her high fives as she exited the stall. (Maybe after she washed her hands.)
Finally, I once shared a restroom with a woman who used to discuss potential dinner selections with her boyfriend while nature was calling on line #2. Why would she do that? How busy, how painfully overscheduled could she be that she would be forced to multi-task that most private and revolting of personal jobs? I vividly recall her asking her boyfriend if he still wanted fish sticks, or if she should pick up some ground beef for burgers. If I had to do all my menu planning while in the bathroom, we would never eat again.
So, if I walk into the bathroom and the room is clearly heavily in use, I'm outta there. I will wait until I go home. 10 hours later. If I am in the washroom and someone enters a neighboring stall and gets right to work, I will pee like it's my job and get the h#ll out of there so fast, you'll think Superman was changing in my stall. And if you tell me about your own poo situation, or worse, ask me to examine a poo you made (oh, beloved hippie friends, with your colon cleanses and sawdust granola), I will never speak to you again. And when people ask me why we no longer hang out, I will tell them you've changed. Which in my mind will be true, because now you're disgusting.
(I'm kidding, of course. I'm not this big a baby. Speaking of which, I am utterly unimpacted by my baby's poo. No problem. And she is more unabashed about her BMs than any creature on the planet, save a spider monkey or reality tv contestant.)
As with most unreasonable preoccupations, my poo-hangup (sounds like the worst closet accessory ever) has caused me some trouble. Once, it even forced me to violate my own ethical code.
I was out to dinner with a friend, and she had brought a friend of hers along to join us. I had never met this friend before this dinner adventure, although I had heard a lot about her. Conversation was lively, and the food was franchise faire- we ordered cheesy appetizers, and settled in to our 16 oz. beers. I got up to take a call from home in the restaurant's foyer. After I finished the call, I decided I should take the opportunity to use the restroom.
Because I have a sixteen-year-old, I have spent more time dunking my kibbles in the toilet water than the average woman. My son leaves the seat up, uses the last of the toilet paper, and generally boobie traps the bathroom seven out of eight times he uses the bathroom. It has crossed my mind to build him a small outhouse in the backyard, so that in February's 20-below weather, I can shout out the window at him, "who's butt is chilly now, my little friend!" but I have not. 'Cause it'd be me that had to empty the receptacle, like an enormous human litter box, and I will do no such thing unless it will save lives. Period.
I digress.
So, short story, I've learned some lessons in bathroom re-con from my son. I always check that the seat is down, and free of liquid adornment. I always check to make sure there is TP at the ready (because I have walked, plastic army guy-style, to fetch a roll of TP from the hall closet more times than I care to recount). So, when I entered one of the two bathroom stalls in the restaurant washroom, I immediately ascertained that the situation was untenable - no TP at all. Shreds on a naked roll. I went for the second stall. I should mention that I also detest speaking to anyone while I'm in the stall. It's not talky-time. It's business time. When I am done with that business, we can catch up on all the fun stuff happening in the office, our lives, Top Chef, whatever. But while I'm actually midstream? Quiet. So, when I saw the shoes of my friend's friend enter the neighboring stall, I thought, "There's no toilet paper in there!" But what I said was nothing. Because it wasn't talky time yet. And then a terrible thing happened.
In the approximately 15 seconds since her arrival in the stall, sounds of havoc and destruction emanated from her body. I don't know if maybe she had just finished a twenty-day diet of refried beans and espresso, or maybe just had two-thirds of her intestines removed, or what, but bad, bad things were happening, and happening fast. It sounded like a hundred angry ninjas, fighting their way out of her butt.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh noooooooooooooooooooo. Now I was in an awful position. I knew something she didn't know- there was no toilet paper in that stall. And she definitely needed some toilet paper (plastic gloves, tarp, etc.). I stood there in my stall, wringing my hands and shaking my head. What could I do? If I gave her some toilet paper, she would know that it was me over here, and that I had witnessed what she just did. And if I didn't, I would abandon her to somehow get toilet paper from my stall, and I couldn't even imagine how she would accomplish that task without another set of clothes, or one of those claw-things they sell on late night tv. I'm no abandoner! I'm a sister! Yes, I have a tampon you can borrow! Yes, I will check if you have any pee on your white pants! Yes, I will tell you if you have spinach in your teeth, your bra shows through your shirt, and if your butt looks blimpy in those jeans. But I was frozen. And I fled.
I didn't even wash my hands.
I practically ran to the table. I hurriedly sat down, bright red and sweaty. Then I scrubbed hand sanitizer all over my hands and forearms, and sat there holding my arms away from my body to dry, like a surgeon.
My friend's friend came from the restroom almost immediately. She seemed like she was feeling great, which honestly was confounding to me. Millions of totally inappropriate questions fought their way to my mouth, and I bit them back: "Are you feeling better?" or, "Do you want a Rolaids?" and, "Did you accidentally put Drano in your coffee this morning?"
When the waitress came, my friend's friend ordered a Buffalo Chicken Strip sandwich. Don't do it! Round two is just a few hours away! I thought. I fought the urge to suggest Chicken Noodle Soup, and silently asked forgiveness for failing her in her moment of need.
I'd like to say I learned an important lesson that day, but the truth is, I'd do exactly the same thing if it happened again. Which it never will, because I'm holding it from here on out.
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