Losing My Shit

A friend of mine told me today that she literally just made it home in time to get herself to the toilet.  “I thought I was going to poo my pants in my car,” she said.  (Me: Wait, what?)  “I thought I was going to…” Okay, yeah, wow.  Oh my.  Earlier today, my other friend told me, in a voicemail, that he has been in the bathroom for the last 24 hours puking, and… other things (I think puking is somehow more socially acceptable to talk about).  For these friends, as I am a doctor of, well, nothing, I have competently diagnosed them with pregnancy, and, stress.  As surprising and gross as their verbal announcement of their situation to me was, it was really refreshing for me to hear other people talk about their own bodies and the crap that comes out.

I know I have not heavily advertised the fact that, once upon a time, I shit my Gap jeans while walking in my NYC neighborhood.  By shit, I’m not talking about those annoying “sharts” that stain a pair of $15 Vicky Secret undies; instead, I’m referring to the full on, baby diaper evacuation dump that my embroidered-lace panty, essentially a string butt-and-vagina-combo hammock, had no chance of surviving, when faced against the inertia of my stress.

I didn’t make it in time.  Clumps of steaming shit were clutching to my upper thighs, and the soupy mess was streaming down my shins.  Forget about my shoes; my feet swished and squished side to side within my precious clogs, the excess oozing out, leaving a trail of my poopy existence as I walked across the Starbucks’ floor in shame.  Holed up in the bathroom, I used my flip cell phone and called a female buddy of mine, who, by the way, is now world famous, and twenty minutes later, she came to rescue me and loan me a pair of her clean, dry, Gap jeans.  We never spoke of it again, ever, but she knows who she is; that shitty experience forever bonded us as two, normal, women, each just trying to figure our own shit out.

My overall explanation for that situation was that as a young woman in in my early twenties, I was struggling with IBS, and was having a rerun nightmare of my Helio Bacter worm-buddy who set up camp in my intestine when I was a freshman in high school.  Now, a freshman in college, I could still get easily triggered by certain foods, emotional situations, extreme heat, or heavy exertion.  Even eventually moving out of NYC in the heat of summer to drive a U-Haul to Greenbelt Maryland, I had to stop at least twice, pop a squat, and liquid shit on the side of the road…diapering myself in Bounty paper towels to suffice as a bottom cover until we reached our new apartment.  And yes, there was splatter involved, as these types of things that forcefully go down, have a wonderful way of splashing, up.  The fact is, shit happens.  Shit happens to me.  My shit.  Stress…full…shit.

Today, I was reminded that other people besides me, literally, have their own emotional and physical shit to deal with, and that shit sometimes comes up, and out, leaving them defenseless, and bowing down to clutch the porcelain goddess.  We just don’t usually talk about the glamorous ins and outs of our own ins and outs with each other.  Pregnancy, emotional disappointments, anxiety, fast food where someone maybe didn’t wash their hands (Noro virus anyone?), heat, and dehydration…all of these are recipes for the shits and the throw ups. However, with all these upsets, my ultimate philosophy is that it’s always better to get it out than leave “it” in, and even though my friends had shit days today, perhaps that little book that sits by the toilet is on to something.  What is your Poo, telling you about you?  Constipated?  Loose?  Baby shit diaper?  Stress much?  Too many greens, not enough greens, uh oh, your poo is green…GREEN.  “How’s your marriage Jerry?”, said Cuba Gooding Jr. to Tom Cruise in Jerry McGuire.  Our own shit literally can be a mirror showing us a physical representation of waste that could be occurring in our lives.  If we don’t acknowledge and deal with it head on, and take care of our bodies and minds, shit will literally ooze out of our pant legs.  Our unprocessed emotional, and physical shit all comes out eventually, but it’s what we do next that matters most.  We cuss, we cry, we hide, we clean up, we resurface and re-hydrate.  We tell a friend about our situation to test the friendship, gross them out, hear their shit story, and then put on a clean pair of our now, size large, big girl, Jockey panties, and then finally, move the fuck on.

Photo by Snapwire on Pexels.com

Self Wear and Tear

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