Birthday Poop Story
Making His Birthday Memorable
There comes a time in everyone's life when they have to decide just how much of themselves to share with another person. More precisely than the question of how much, though, is the question of when. This was exactly the dilemma I faced a few short months ago.
However, to give the impression that I had a choice in the timing is erroneous.
My fiancé had been well aware of my "bowel issues." After a certain point in our relationship, I had simply become exhausted at the prospect of downplaying my poopies and the habits that accompanied an undiagnosed case of IBS. So, poop I did. And soon he became well versed in the unfortunate and inconvenient reality of being me: everything from food to beverages to anxiety gives me the shits.
So why would I delude myself into thinking that his birthday would magically suspend my digestive abnormalities?! That I would somehow be able to divert the mouth-to-rectum track and slow the inevitable? That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was eating red meat and drinking a cappuccino made from battery acid. Had this all been done within the confines of our home, a mere few steps away from the porcelain potty I loved so dearly, it would not have mattered. However, we were downtown at a renowned steak house. (I may as well have been in orbit). I was full, I was drunk, and, most of all, I was naïve.
At one point, all was well. I was confident that I'd given him the best birthday he'd ever had. We were actually giddy from the day's events. However, all of that changed in one instant. An instant that forever altered the dynamic between us. I've replayed it many times in my mind. I feel betrayed by my body, disappointed that I didn't anticipate the horror that unfolded.
Fast-forward. I felt the first rumblings in the cavity of my bowels as we left our dinner locale. No problem. I'd become acutely aware of my limits and would've used the restroom had I thought it to be serious. So we continued on to the parking garage to retrieve our car.
Before we even reached the second level, I got the sweats. They were accompanied by a searing pain in my gut and the pucker reflex. I mentioned my utter discomfort, to which he offered up a possible restroom stop on the way home. Sadly, I knew I couldn't wait. I briefly considered attempting a run back to the restaurant. No, that wouldn't do. What about a public toilet in the parking garage? Yeah, right. I'd have to divide attention between a disinterested attendant and my screaming ass. Not gonna happen. So I did what any self-respecting, desperate woman would do: I shat between my car and the high-end SUV parked next to it.
It wasn't just any shit though. It was an angry liquishit. (This is my justification for not being able to hold it in.)
First came the sound of liquid hitting the cold, concrete floor. Then came the smell. After that came my fiancé's horrified realization of what I'd just done. Even though he was on the other side of the car, I had a clear view of the disgust that slowly crept across his face. I tried not to consider what all of this meant to our relationship. After all, I still did need to find something with which to wipe.
On the way home, I smelled like poo a little. I guess that the smell and what he'd just witnessed prompted him to keep talking about it. I knew that the visual image would forever haunt him. The evening's events may have also caused him to momentarily consider asking for the engagement ring back. At the very least, I'm sure that my "pure, unabridged sharing" will flash across his mind as we exchange vows at the altar later this month.
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Birthday Poop Story