Your stomach starts gurgling. Then it begins to lurch and churn. You look around the restaurant, fearful that the other patrons can hear the revolt beginning from within your colon. You kegel your sphincter, secretly allowing the foul air to escape and hoping that the clenching is the muffler needed. You pray that the tables that surround yours are filled with diners that have lost their sense of smell.
You have to poop. But you’re in a restaurant full of suits and dresses. The thought of making that particular walk of shame is, well, quite shameful.
Then, your husband announces those very words that you have been chanting in your mind.
“Honey, I’ve gotta take a shit. Got anything to read in that briefcase of a purse?”
With that, he pushes back his chair. He stands up. And he heads to the Gentleman’s lounge, where he disappears for a very, very obvious extended period of time.
When he returns, he is completely oblivious to the days, weeks and months that seem to have passed since he stood up and left the table to do his business. As is his lack of care that he is trailing residual bathroom odor back to your table.
By now, you’re stubbornly writhing in agony in your chair. Cursing the very day that you were born a woman. Wishing you had that type of confidence that your husband displayed. Jealous of the fact that he isn’t feeling like crap because it’s all deposited a public restroom, which you have a complete aversion to.
Why is it, you wonder, that you can spread your legs wide open and push out a baby in front of a live audience. Yet, the very thought of pooping in a public restroom, where people are constantly wandering in, causes every digestive organ in your body to withhold favors?
Your bills comes. You pay it. You run to your car and beg your husband to drive like the wind. You cross your legs and your fingers. You hope, as you open the window to bring in some fresh air, that you will be able to make it home without having a little escapee.
Or…is it just me?