Warning: Poop talk below.
DH and I had a double date night last night. This other couple are very close friends of ours. I would say they are our BFF’s of the adult couple world. We talk about everything. From being the proud owners of teenage daughters to well, everything. Always lots of laughs and hours of great fun.
Last night our talk turned to bathroom habits. No, not how long it takes women to get ready vs. men. We talked about the ability for men to be able to poop in public. Without a care in the world. They could be in a fancy restaurant having an exquisite dinner and the urge can just strike. No problem. They just take care of business. As if they are brushing their teeth.
“Oh excuse me honey, I must use the facilities.” I don’t ask whether he has to go Number 1 or Number 2, but I can usually tell which. Did he bring a newspaper in with him? No. Of course not. Where would he get one on such short notice? It just takes him longer. That is how I know.
A couple of weeks ago we were in The Cape for a few days. We were walking around this cute little town when I started to experience terrible stomach pains. It was gas. Bad gas. I could feel it start to gurgle, kick and almost scream at me. It was ruining my day.
DH and The Kid suggested I use the bathroom. We were passing one. “Oh look, mom. Go in there. You’ll feel much better.” I went, even though I knew exactly what was going to happen. I’d go in there with the best intention. I would sit. And sit. And…nothing. I knew it. In fact, just the thought of having to poop in a public restroom scares me more than Freddie Kruger does.
Because my sphincter muscle seizes up on me. I can almost hear it talking. “No way, sister. Not doing it. Not here. I’m closing the door and double padlocking it.”
It’s bad enough when you pee and a little noisy air escapes. It happens to the best of us. But damn, when that happens I sit and wait for everyone to leave. I just hope no one notices my shoes and then they see me walking around the mall. “Look mom, that’s the lady who farted in the bathroom.”
But men? They could care less. “Who cares?” they say. “Everyone poops. Just go in there and go.” But we can’t. The only person I know who doesn’t have a problem with it is my mother. But she’s 68. I bet when she was younger, she didn’t do it. Actually, she probably did. This is the woman who made me try on training bras over my shirts in Caldor and who would call me Pooper Scooper in public.
Just so you know, I did go in public twice. Once in the mall because if I didn’t go in a real bathroom, there would be a clean up in Aisle 12. And once in someone’s backyard. It’s a long story. If you need to know, I talked about it here.
I guess it will just be one of those mysteries of the world. Men vs. Women. Poop vs. not poop. Whatever. I’m good. I’m especially good at holding it. Mostly.