A Story About Poop

Authors Note: This story, as you may have guessed from the title, deals with poop. If that makes you squeamish, get over it, we all poop. Reader discretion advised, especially if you're currently eating, dating someone new, or emotionally attached to beige carpet.

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“It was probably the Falafels, that guy didn’t look like he’d washed his hands since the Reagan era.” My entreaties didn’t help the sobbing figure on the other side of the door. “Come on, it’s not that big of a deal!”

The sobs continued. I thought that the internet would have some sort of way to deal with this; this being your girlfriend of three months just had a massive diarrhea incident during a romantic shower together. She had screamed, run out of the bathroom, and locked herself in the bedroom, which wasn’t exactly the ideal place. I’m not entirely sure where the ideal place would be, maybe a carwash, or just staying in the bathroom. I was sure the kitchen was the worst place, followed closely by a bedroom with light beige carpet.

Just a few minutes prior I’d stared at the tub, unsure what to do before I had searched the internet for diarrhea in the shower, I got a bunch of terrible pictures and decided the internet was not the solution. I saw the litter box and briefly thought about dumping kitty litter in the tub, but nixed it as my cat (an orange rescue) judged me from the hallway. I’d grabbed whatever cleaner was under the sink and sprayed, then dumped the bottle all over the shower, it was purple.

“Look I cleaned it up, you know, with purple Fabuloso and all, barely even smells anymore.” The sobs took on a new pitch. Barely was probably the wrong word choice.

I had met her at a friend’s wedding, she was the photographer and I was a seat filler for a college friend I didn’t remember but had been invited anyway. I’d been standing, staring out at something and she took my picture. It was my favorite picture anyone had ever taken of me, I looked cool, relaxed and totally unbothered. All utter lies, but the picture was great so I’d framed it and given it to my dad. She contacted my friend and asked for my info to give me the photo and the rest was, as they say, history (ok, 3 months does not, under any circumstances qualify as history). I've never figured out how a stranger can capture the guy you wish you were, but that's why she's a photographer and a guy who still tries to photograph the moon with his iPhone.

We were barely at the point in our relationship where I acknowledge that she, as a woman, also pooped. I just pretended that those mornings when she would utterly punish my toilet prior to leaving for work was the work of the cat and that her butthole probably smelled like cucumber and melon, which, now that I think about it, probably would have been slightly more disturbing than if she actually, you know, pooped.

"It’s just so embarrassing” a muffled voice came from behind the door. I grasped for a response, it seemed like denying it was embarrassing would be dishonest, and honesty is important in a relationship. I settled on trying to relate.

“The Falafels gave me gas and I’ve been farting up a storm all afternoon” I shook my head as soon as I said it. “Sorry, that sounded better in my head, it just came out.” Again wrong word choice there.

“You are not helping.” I heard her say from the other side of the door

“Once I shit myself on a bus in Japan.” I was now acutely aware that I was standing naked, dripping outside my bedroom door. My cat was doing figure eights through my legs as if me, naked, talking to a door was just another Saturday night.

The sobbing stopped for a second. I could picture her face, looking all cute and confused.

“How does that help this situation?” She asked. I nodded because, in truth, it didn’t help at all. It was, after all, a different time and a different place. (specifically one year prior and Tokyo.) The Japanese people had actually been very polite about it, directing me to a convenient small shop that had showers and a change of clothes that fit me, as if large white men shit themselves every day on Japanese buses and there was a good market for self-soiling recovery shops.

“I don’t know, sorry.” I offered. “Would it help if I pooped in the bathtub, I mean I kind of have to go.” There was a slight giggle from the other side of the door.

“No, please do not go poop in your bathtub for me.”

“You know I would, right? ‘cause that’s what people do when they love each other, they leave random acts of feces in unexpected places? At least I think I read that on Instagram or something.”

She laughed again and opened the door. She was wrapped in one of my white towels, which I imagine would need to be bleached. Or thrown out. Or burned.

“You know that’s the first time you said ‘I love you’” She was smiling at least. Her eyes were a little red from crying.

“Oh. Well, I guess I do. I do... you know... love you.” I hadn't really realized that I did. Maybe the moment you acknowledge she poops marks that turning point in a relationship, the one where you realize you love someone. I don't know what it is for women. Maybe it's when their boyfriend cries in front of them, or admits he still plays with Legos when no one's watching. I'm pretty sure it's rarely related to diarrhea in a shower.

“I love you too” Then she closed her eyes and shook her head, “Crap, we aren’t going to be able to tell anyone about the first time we said ‘I love you’. We need to come up with a new story.”

“Lets get all cleaned off, and watch Korean dramas for inspiration.” I put my arm around her and we walked back to the bathroom, where I took a huge dump in the toilet and she showered off, laughing at my red, straining face and telling me I should eat more fiber.